Ling Soo cackled in exuberance. He took the lantern in his hand. He reached up and tipped back the head of Foy. The face, streaked with blood from a gash above the forehead, was grotesque and brutal. It shone with yellow pallor.
Foy was still living, Ling Soo could see.
The squat Chinaman waited. He thought that Foy was regaining consciousness. The slitlike eyelids were moving. Ling Soo cackled again, and his insidious chuckle was loud in that hollowed space in the heart of the wooden ship.
Foy would have his chance to speak. If he would not speak, Ling Soo would wait and give him an opportunity. Then — whether or not he spoke — Foy would die! That was the verdict.
Ling Soo, as though in ceremony, uttered words aloud — designing, perhaps, that they would reach the ears of the man who was recovering his senses.
“It is death! Green Eyes has spoken!”
These were the words which Ling Soo uttered, in the language of his native land.
CHAPTER XX
ON THE TORTURE RACK
THE eyes of Foy opened. They were wide, and they gleamed in the light of the lantern — gleamed as Ling Soo had never seen them gleam before.
An instant later, that flash was gone. The yellow lids were half closed, in the manner of Foy.
Before him, The Shadow saw the merciless form of Ling Soo. Then The Shadow looked upward, and his half-closed eyes took in the strange surroundings. His keen brain, usually alert, was working slowly for the moment.
The strain upon the wrists was great. The Shadow, brought to full wakefulness by pain, began to sense the hopelessness of his predicament. In this terrible position, escape belonged to the realm of impossibility.
Ling Soo’s cackling laugh echoed in the gloomy compartment. The master of the Wu-Fan was gloating. He spoke to his false henchman, Foy, and his words were filled with sinister significance.
“Why did you betray?” This question was in Chinese. “Tell me why — or you shall know the torture.”
The hanging man did not reply.
“Your misery will be long,” declared Ling Soo solemnly. “Speak! Tell the truth of your perfidy. Then only shall the torture end.”
The sullen lips of Foy did not move.
“You let our enemy escape,” gloated Ling Soo, “but that shall not save you. He was overpowered — perhaps he is dead at this moment. I am to perform the duty that was to be yours. Our plans shall prevail — in spite of your treachery, Foy.”
The words had no effect upon the prisoner.
“You will not speak?” Ling Soo’s question was malicious. “Then know the torture! Your senses have been gone. You have not felt the great pain yet. Unless you speak now, I shall depart. You shall suffer while I am away.”
The eyelids of Foy were narrow and defiant.
“You have had your choice,” said Ling Soo calmly. “I go. If you cry out — it can do you no good. Our friends, only, are here.”
He hung the lantern on the wall. He stood, squat and glaring, by the open door to the next compartment. The shadow of Foy, long and fantastic, spread across the floor. Ling Soo had no time for shadows.
“Remember,” came his cackling, singsong tones, “you are in the rack of torture. The rack from which no man can save himself!”
With that, Ling Soo was gone. Leaving the lantern so its glow would remind Foy of his hopeless position, Ling Soo closed the door.
As an instrument of agony, the Chinese torture rack was one of the strangest and most formidable devices in all the world. It brought slower pain than did the infernal creations of the Middle Ages, but its work was sure.
Ling Soo had spoken the truth when he had praised this Oriental contrivance; but he had been in error when he had said that escape was impossible. Some years before, one man had managed to extricate himself from its toils. The American, Houdini, had allowed himself to be fastened in a Chinese torture rack and had worked his way free after long and strenuous efforts.
There had been only one Houdini — a master of his art. Strong and powerful, he had used his amazing ingenuity to its utmost in that escape. Now The Shadow, weakened from his terrible fall into the hold of the ship, was confronted by the same problem that had taxed the skill of Houdini.
With The Shadow, it meant life or death. Unless his mighty mind could divine the only possible way of overcoming the hold of this machine, unless his weary muscles could respond to the efforts that were demanded, The Shadow would perish!
Time, too, was short. The Shadow, with wired ropes about his wrists, had been restrained while unconscious. He had gained no opportunity to fight against the bonds when they had been placed upon him.
His arms were already wearied from the strain which they had undergone. For he had dangled long before his consciousness had returned to him!
There he hung. His fingers could not reach the knots upon his wrists. They were more than a foot below the cross beam of the rack. It was humanly impossible to move upward. Nor could his feet avail him, for they barely touched the floor!
Buried alive in the hollow of the deep-set Chinese junk, The Shadow faced the most terrible situation in his long career.
Free, he could struggle against odds that were seemingly unconquerable. Bound with ordinary restraints, he could fight his way free. But he was now in the grasp of the powerful device that was the greatest machination ever designed by a subtle, Oriental mind!
Could, The Shadow meet this formidable test — the one that Houdini alone had undergone successfully?
His motionless, hanging body, with its still shadow stretched across the floor, betokened complete helplessness. The longer that it remained in that position, the more The Shadow’s strength would dwindle. That was the most sinister factor of this horrible Chinese torture rack.
At last, The Shadow moved. In the silence of that room, broken only by a soft lapping of tiny waves against the wooden sides of the Pung-Shoon, the hands of The Shadow clutched above his head. Futilely at first, they finally succeeded in gripping the rope that led to the beam above.
BUT the fingers, alone, could afford no aid. Although they worked with supernormal strength, they did not raise the body a fraction of an inch.
The fingers did not seek that impossible task. They were twisting at the rope. The dangling form began to sway. The toes added to the sidewise motion. Grazing the floor, they added to the swing.
The action was prolonged and tedious. The fingers, gripping, worked from above. The feet raised slightly from the floor each time the body moved gently to one side. As it went in the opposite direction, the feet, stretched toes downward, added an impetus.
Inch by inch, the motion increased. Each swing was longer, now. Fingers and toes, working together and using every possible effort, were increasing the momentum.
Tedious though it seemed, The Shadow was gaining what he desired.
His body was swinging like a living pendulum!
What was the purpose of this amazing action?
It could not strain the stout rope. That was too firmly fastened. Ling Soo had left naught to chance. Seemingly, The Shadow was expending tremendous effort — all in vain!
Yet the pendulum swing kept on, while the grotesque shadow on the floor followed back and forth beneath the glow of the single lantern.
Wider — longer were the swings. Off to the right, The Shadow’s foot almost touched the upright post on that side. Back went the swing; the left foot just touched the other post.
The wild swings still increased. Then came the final one, that served The Shadow’s purpose.
The right foot, stretching to its utmost, went barely past the upright post. The extended toes were just beyond that spot. With uncanny skill, the tip of the foot caught the post and stopped the swing.