The Shadow - The Jade Dragon Part 1

THE JADE DRAGON.

Maxwell Grant.

CHAPTER I.

THE lights of Chinatown sparkled like jewels against the velvet background of the darker area surrounding it. Neon lights - red, green, and blue - were the rubies, emeralds, and sapphires of that galaxy; while blinking bulbs of white represented the sparkle of diamonds.

Such was the effect of Chinatown when viewed from Chatham Square. Of course, it was all illusion, but that created by the lights was small compared to the deceptive effect of the blackened background against which the dazzle played.

There was nothing of velvet in those off streets of Manhattan. Gloomy, dismal, the borders of Chinatown were places where anything might happen. Indeed, Chinatown proper, far from being sinister, was a welcome oasis of light in a desert of dangerous darkness.

Yet, the figure that glided through the bordering gloom gave little heed to persons about him. A tall, shrouded form that had a human shape, he was pa.s.sing shamblers who had thuggish eyes; panhandlers whose whines carried the taint of threatening snarls; loafers who could well be wanted criminals posing as Bowery b.u.ms.

Of those, at least three out of four would have relished a glimpse of the figure in black. Had they seen it,they would have started a hue and cry to rally others of their ilk. Guns, knives, and other a.s.sorted weapons would have come to hands quite capable of using them, had these wolves among the riffraff sighted the foe who had forced them into the dregs where they belonged.

For the gliding shape in black was the scourge of crimeland, that creature of mystery known only as The Shadow Tonight, The Shadow had no time for the skulkers who shunned the glow of Chinatown. The most they saw of him was an occasional patch of pa.s.sing darkness that flitted along the grimy sidewalk. By the time sharp eyes looked for the figure that had cast the pa.s.sing shade, it was gone.

Other work lay ahead for The Shadow, and his pa.s.sing up of opportunity to deal with human sc.u.m was proof that his mission must be of prime importance. Moreover, the direction that he took told where his mission lay.

In Chinatown!

Where lights increased, The Shadow became a master of camouflage, a creature of invisibility. Not that he actually elbowed his way through throngs, unseen; he was made of too material stuff for such a practice. Rather, he blended with backgrounds, using what stretches of darkness he could find.

Chinatown was not all lights, not even a large percentage of it, and darkness, where it did occur, was all the better as a pausing place, when lights were thereabout, to produce a contrast.

From door to door, under the shelter of steps, past windows that were lighted but empty of watching faces, The Shadow pursued his strange course. On Mott Street, he halted in the mouth of a tiny pa.s.sage, while a throng of Americans came down a stairway and filed along the street.

They were sightseers from a Chinatown bus, and they went the other direction, chatting, laughing about their visit to the joss house. To them, Chinatown was fast losing its spell of mystery, and not one of them realized that they had pa.s.sed within a dozen feet of real mystery in human form: The Shadow.

As soon as the last had filed away, The Shadow emerged from darkness, turned into the doorway and went up the stairs to the joss house. The stairway was dimly illuminated, and The Shadow's ascent, if noticed, would have been regarded as nothing more than a flicker of a faulty light bulb.

Looking into the joss house, The Shadow saw the serene proprietor and the usual attendants, waiting for another bus load of Chinatown tourists.

That was all The Shadow wanted to learn.

DOWN the stairs again, The Shadow moved along the street and stopped beside the window of an antique shop. From an angle where he could not be seen against the lighted window, he observed the two Chinese partners who ran the place - bland men, who like the joss-house keeper, wore jackets common in China.

Then, crossing the street, The Shadow blacked himself out against a bas.e.m.e.nt doorway. Looking back, he saw two Chinese stopping at the very window where he had paused. They, too, were checking on the bland proprietors, and when they continued their course, they stopped at the doorway to the joss house.

Nor were these the only persons bound on an inspection tour. In their turn, the two Chinese were being watched by an American whose manner of gait identified him as a headquarters detective. He peered through the window of the antique shop; then watched the Chinese ahead. One had gone up to the joss house, while the other waited below. Just then, The Shadow had a visitor, whose pounding footsteps announced him. He was a patrolman, and one of his duties was to try the door against which The Shadow stood.

Looking down into the bas.e.m.e.nt entry, the bluecoat saw nothing unusual. Absolutely immobile, The Shadow might have been part of the darkened door itself. That was why the patrolman remembered another, and more pressing, duty. Postponing his trial of the door, he crossed the street and contacted the plain-clothes man opposite.

While the two were in conversation, The Shadow glided away. The darkness that he left was stirred by the echoes of a whispered laugh. Well did The Shadow know why certain Chinese were keeping tally on others, and why the police were checking on both.

Recent crimes - robbery and murder - had shown a distinct Chinese angle, throwing suspicion upon Chinatown. It didn't please law-abiding Chinese to know that they were under official surveillance. They were as anxious as the police to learn whom of their compatriots, if any, might be the culprits.

Thus, while honest Chinese were actually luring the police along the proper inspection tour, The Shadow continued his own.

From Mott Street, he glided into Pell, and looked into numerous places: tea shops, where placid Chinese let time float by; book stores, where more enterprising Celestials were busy arranging Chinese magazines on display racks; even into obscure bas.e.m.e.nt restaurants, unlike the showy eating places that attracted the American trade.

Always, The Shadow was interested in those Chinese who, whether sleepy or wide awake, preferred the jackets of their native costumes to American style of dress. Somehow, that preference had the effect of a badge, that marked the jacket wearers as a group unto themselves.

If such were true, the plan was subtle. Oriental tradesmen would naturally wear Chinese garb to attract the tourist trade. It was simply a case of keeping tabs on all such individuals, to make sure that they stayed in the stores where they belonged. In doing so, The Shadow noted that more strolling Chinese, all American-clad, were doing the same.

In the curve of Doyers Street, The Shadow again crossed the path of the sightseeing party. They were coming from an exit of an old mission, and The Shadow turned back into another bas.e.m.e.nt doorway.

He'd finished his tour of the Chinese shopping district, and his present pause was merely to let the sightseers go by.

Then the pace of heavy footsteps diverted The Shadow's attention from the tourist party.

Another patrolman was covering the Doyers Street beat. He had more doors to handle, for most of these shops closed early, and some, like the one in front of which The Shadow was hiding, were empty.

Forgetful of tourists, patrolman, even the murmur of Chinatown itself, The Shadow turned toward the bas.e.m.e.nt door From the solid blackness representing the cloaked shape in black came m.u.f.fled, clicking sounds.

Reaching the door in question, the patrolman came down the steps and thrust his hand into darkness that looked solid, but no longer was. He tried the door and found it locked.

This time, darkness had swallowed The Shadow, thanks to his deftness with a pick. Using his set of special tools, he had unlocked the door, gone through, and locked it from the other side, while the patrolman was making his slow approach. WHEN The Shadow reappeared, he came from a cellar window opening into a narrow alley. He heard a rumble and saw the big Chinatown bus go by on a wide street, carrying its pa.s.sengers back to Times Square.

Turning into the alley itself, The Shadow was moving back toward the heart of Chinatown, when he came upon a little side alley nestled between two antiquated brick buildings. The alley was a cul-de-sac; short, with no outlet. The Shadow observed that fact, and more.

The "more" was this: By the chance light cast from a second-story window, The Shadow saw that the blind alley terminated in a heavy door which had a metal sheathing. In the door was a small, barred wicket, slightly more than shoulder high. As The Shadow watched from a darkened corner of the alley, he saw a crouching Chinaman steal out from beside the wall The fellow was wearing a Chinese blouse, much like the jackets that so many shopkeepers preferred. He gave a crafty, slant-eyed look along the alley; failing to see The Shadow, the Chinaman turned his yellow face toward the wicket and tapped a signal with a quick, darting hand.

Immediately, the wicket opened. Framed in its square, The Shadow saw a face that could be described as ivory, both in smoothness and beauty. A girl's face, of the matchless sort that belonged in a garden in Old Peking. The sparkle of dark eyes carrying the tinkle of a fountain; a background of raven hair that bespoke the perfume of flowers - these were but the complements of her exquisite features.

There was a glitter from jeweled rings as a lovely, graceful hand moved through the bars of the wicket and thrust a folded paper to the crouching Chinaman. Then, before the man in the blouse could even bow his thanks, the wicket snapped shut.

Turning, the crouched man started for the opening of the alley; then, on afterthought, he paused to open the message, reading it by the light that came down from above.

He didn't hear the faint swish that moved toward him. Instead, the Chinaman scowled only because he couldn't get enough light. He thought his shoulder was blacking it out, and he turned to look up.

Suddenly alarmed, he faced the other way, to see the figure that had really blocked the light. Burning eyes from beneath the brim of a slouch hat met those of the scowling Chinaman.

The scowl faded into an expression of alarm, as the Chinaman voiced the name that stood for The Shadow: "Ying Ko!"

That was all. Black-gloved hands gripped the Chinaman's throat, suppressing further outcry. Deft pressure on the proper nerve and the Celestial sank, temporarily paralyzed, at The Shadow's feet. The note fluttered from his hand; The Shadow caught it before it reached the paving.

It was a slip of rice paper, and on it, written in a girl's thin hand, were the English words: Herbert Dayland. Nine o'clock tonight.

Folding the paper, The Shadow pocketed it; stooping, he lifted the numbed Chinaman across his shoulder and moved to the mouth of the alley; thence along the through alley, to the street that bordered Chinatown.

Just within the shelter of darkness, The Shadow paused; producing a tiny flashlight, he blinked it. The glow was green. Soon, a taxicab wheeled up. From it stepped two men: Cliff Marsland and Clyde Burke, secret agents of The Shadow. To them, The Shadow turned over his burden. He used his flashlight, white on this occasion, to point out the cellar window leading to the empty shop. As the two left, carrying their prisoner with them, The Shadow blinked another green flash across the street.

A small, furtive man appeared; he might have been a panhandler or a b.u.m, but he was neither. He was Hawkeye, a most efficient prowler, who spotted doings in obscure neighborhoods and reported them to his chief, The Shadow. Briefly, The Shadow gave Hawkeye instructions involving a tip-off to the police.

Then, with a swish of the black cloak, The Shadow was in the cab itself and away, so promptly, that even the sharp eyed spotter blinked in wonderment. Back to the Chinatown alley came The Shadow's parting token: a whisper laden with grim mirth.

It told that The Shadow, master of justice, was bound on another mission - that of battle with crime!

CHAPTER II. NINE O CLOCK.

HERBERT DAYLAND lived well uptown, in a house that had been a show place of the Nineties. He liked old things, did Dayland, and the house was one of them. He had modernized the place, yet kept some of its glamour.

The ground floor was a great reception hall, with a huge dining room at the rear; on the second floor was a living room, a few bedrooms, and a special room that Dayland called his strong room.

On the third floor, more bedrooms, while the servants' quarters occupied the fourth. Of course, there was a bas.e.m.e.nt, too, furnished with a bar and game room, with a kitchen to the rear. Such was the house where Herbert Dayland entertained in lavish style, as he was doing on this evening.

There were at least forty guests, so far, and more were arriving in the reception hall. Dayland's half a dozen servants were not enough, so he had hired more, planning to keep them through the season, since events like the present party were to be a common thing.

The guests were all in evening clothes, and among the women, daring gowns predominated. Most of Dayland's friends were from the cafe set, and they liked his parties because he turned his house into a night club, or its equivalent.

Not that Herbert Dayland was a playboy. He was an elderly man, with thin hair and serious, heavy-jowled face that occasionally wrinkled itself into a smile.

Dayland had been serious all his life; so serious, that he had acquired several million dollars. In search of better things, he had spent a fortune on art works and antique jewelry, only to find that possession of the same did not make life any merrier.

So Dayland had chosen to surround himself with convivial acquaintances, along with friends of old standing. He hadn't disposed of his art collection; instead, it was all over the house, making the place into a mammoth picture gallery. His jewels, however, were in the strong room, along with some much-prized curios. Dayland's jewels were very valuable, particularly his Chinese collection.

Among the early guests was a girl named Margo Lane. Though she belonged to the cafe set, she was quite different from the rest of the feminine contingent present on this evening. To begin with, Margo was a brunette, whereas most of the other girls were blondes. Moreover, she was a quiet brunette, friendly, but with a smile that could be genuine. Margo listened more than she talked, which made her very popular with people who counted. As for attire, her evening gown was modish, but neither too revealing nor too garish.

In looks, Margo could more than hold her own, and she gained attention by her manner, not by her get-up. This was proven by the way the men of the cafe set singled her out when they arrived.

Two such young men were Errol Garvin and Don Feldon, who came in together, and hurried over as soon as they had checked their top hats with a servant. They met Margo at the bottom of the grand staircase, under a huge painting of the Roman Coliseum.

Garvin was stocky, and an athletic type. He looked as if he had come from a polo match, which he hadn't, because this wasn't the season for them. His squarish face and thin, light hair suited the character of an outdoor man.

Feldon, lighter of build, dark-haired, and with roundish, sallow features, looked like an indoor product; but such was not the case. His complexion was mostly tan, gained from sailing in Long Island Sound. As a yachtsman, Feldon had more than average reputation.

The two were going to the game room, and they wanted Margo to join them after they'd had time for a few drinks, which they agreed, would handicap them sufficiently for a billiard game with Margo, who was quite adept with the cue.

Margo said she would remember the invitation, so Garvin and Feldon went their way, followed by some other new arrivals.

Margo was glad of the interruption, for it gave her an excuse for pausing on the stairway until Harry Vincent arrived; which he did, quite shortly.

HARRY was a clean-cut chap who frequented cafe society but didn't let it throw him. Considering that both he and Margo were levelheaded, it was odd that they didn't get together more often than they did.

The oddity was explained by a fact that both kept strictly to themselves.

Harry and Margo were working for The Shadow, and parties like Dayland's were a duty with them - the sort of duty that meant keeping to their separate ways.

Noting Margo glancing at the Coliseum painting, Harry looked the same direction and nodded his approval.

"A fine painting," he said. "One of the best in Dayland's collection." Then, in an undertone, he added: "That phone call from Burbank. Chinese trouble, heading here. I'm going to have a look outside. Stay close to Dayland, particularly after nine o'clock."

Continuing up the stairway, Margo noted a huge clock at the top. It showed twelve minutes of nine.

Knowing that The Shadow had probably gone to Chinatown, Margo could understand why he had relayed a call through his contact man, Burbank. There wouldn't be time for The Shadow to get to Dayland's uptown residence before the zero hour of nine.

On the second floor, Margo looked along the hallway. She saw Dayland's strong room, and its door was open. That wasn't unusual, since all the smaller curios were in the vault, but Dayland always locked the room, itself, when he threw these big parties.

At the rear of the hall was a stairway which the servants used, and Margo was starting in that direction, hoping for a look into the strong room as she pa.s.sed it, when the sound of voices made her turn. Herbert Dayland was coming from the front living room. With him were two friends of the jowl-and-paunch variety. One was Louis Walstead, a retired tyc.o.o.n like Dayland. The other was still in harness; he was Burton Royce, the celebrated artist, who might have rated half a millionaire, had he chosen to save his money.

Wheeling quickly on one high heel, Margo began to study the picture gallery in this section of the hallway, and, as luck had it, she found herself right among the Royces. Dayland had bought at least a dozen paintings from his artist friend, and they were all on exhibit.

Sprinkled among paintings of modern New York skylines and street scenes were three human studies, each posed by a different blonde. Royce paused, lifted his heavy eyebrows with interest, as he noted the contrast between the blondes in the paintings and the p.r.o.nounced brunette who was surveying his work.

Royce had met Margo, and saw an opportunity to extend the acquaintance.

"How do you like my work, Miss Lane?" he inquired in a purring tone. "The studies from life, I mean."

"I don't know," replied Margo, wrinkling her forehead. "I'm comparing them with the originals that I just saw downstairs. They don't exactly match the paintings. Of course, they're wearing a few clothes this evening, but hardly enough to make them look so different."

Royce smiled. Margo was right; his blond models were at Dayland's party. They were among the early guests who raided the bar immediately upon arrival. Royce had started a model fad among the cafe crowd that frequented Dayland's and was becoming bored by too many applicants.

"They were sober when I did the paintings," remarked Royce. "That makes a difference, I suppose, though I must confess" - he eyed his own paintings critically - "that they are too much of a type. I need contrast in my work." He turned, to scan Margo from head to foot. "You know, Miss Lane, I believe you could supply it."

Margo gave another glance at the paintings. She was turning to shake her head, when Royce added pointedly: "In costume, of course. I said my work needed contrast. I must trend toward another extreme. What I have in mind might be termed 'A Portrait of a Princess.' Most particularly, I need a model who can properly display my choice collection of antique jewelry."

Sudden interest showed in Margo's eyes, whereat Royce withdrew his smile and became very serious.

"My collection rates on a par with Dayland's," he declared. "Like Dayland, I have traveled extensively in China -"

ROYCE was rousing Margo's enthusiasm more rapidly than he had expected; nevertheless, he was forced to interrupt himself. Both he and Margo turned to see a stocky man, of swarthy complexion, who had joined the group outside the strong room. Royce was sure that the arrival wasn't a guest, and Margo could have told him why.

She knew the stocky man; he was Inspector Joe Cardona. Ablest official on the New York police force, Joe hadn't any spare time to spend learning the fancy ways of society.

Cardona was introducing himself to Dayland, but he wanted the rest to take in what he had to say. He looked hard at Margo, to make sure she was with Royce. Then, wresting his attention from the paintings, Cardona swung back to Dayland.

"It's about your Chinese jewelry," said Cardona bluntly. "Those recent robberies had a Chinese angle.We just had a tip-off that the same might apply here. Where do you keep your jewels, Mr. Dayland?"

"Here in the strong room," returned Dayland, with a gesture. "They're in the vault, of course."

Cardona looked into the strong room, noted that its many curios were heavy. More important, in Joe's estimate, was the size of the formidable vault door and the strength of the steel-shuttered window. He turned to Dayland again.

"You're locking the strong room, Mr. Dayland?"

"Not just yet," replied Dayland. "I was going to show the antique jewelry to these friends of mine."