The creature twisted itself about the intended victim. Hartnett found himself staring into the eyes of an evil-faced yellow man — the spidery Chinaman known as Chun Shi, the Crafty. This minion of Kwa had been waiting on the outer ledge for the lawyer’s return.
Throttling hands caught at Westley Hartnett’s throat. Before the attorney could break the hold away, Chun Shi had added new twists. Like the curling tentacles of an octopus, the long limbs of the crafty slayer were encircling their prey.
With choking power, the Chinaman prevented Hartnett from making any outcry; yet he allowed the lawyer to stagger about the room. Therein lay Chun Shi’s cunning; and Hartnett performed a fatal error.
Had he struggled against the hands alone, he would have delayed his death, for Chun Shi would have required considerable time to strangle him.
IRONICALLY, a rescuer was nearing this very spot, and headwork by Hartnett would have meant salvation. But the lawyer staggered about at random, and brought himself into the exact position that Chun Shi required.
Near the table, with Hartnett leaning backward, Chun Shi’s distorted body seemed to spring upward, and the change of weight caused the lawyer to lose his balance. As Westley Hartnett toppled backward, the Chinaman emitted a fiendish croak and drove his right palm squarely into the lawyer’s face.
The back of Hartnett’s head smashed against the corner of the heavy desk, driven there with the crushing blow of a pile driver. The body collapsed limply and crumpled to the floor.
Chun Shi vaulted away with the ease of an acrobat. His long-limbed frame hovered above the lawyer’s form. Beady, almond eyes saw that Hartnett’s doom was sealed.
With a quick stride, Chun Shi gained the window. He slipped his feet to the ledge below, and scrambled in crablike fashion along the side of the building. He was like a yellow spider as he fled from window to window, always keeping below the level of the sills.
Within half a minute after he had sprung away from Westley Hartnett’s body, Chun Shi had gained the window that led to the side hall. That marked his final departure from the neighborhood of death.
There was no motion in Westley Hartnett’s body. It lay unbreathing upon the floor beside the desk. Slow, tedious minutes passed. Something clicked in the lock of the apartment door.
The portal opened, and a black shape came into view. The Shadow moved swiftly to the large room. A strange, spectral figure in the room illuminated by a single lamp, the master of darkness viewed the workmanship of Chun Shi.
Westley Hartnett was dead. Fate had conspired tonight. From the moment when Harry Vincent had missed the lawyer in the sun porch, all events had favored the evil schemes of murderers.
The insidious figure that Harry had seen on the streaky lawn had commanded The Shadow’s investigation. The swift race of The Shadow had been intended to prevent that creature from overtaking Hartnett. Instead, a lesser fiend had been awaiting the lawyer’s return to his apartment.
Despite that, The Shadow could have made the rescue but for freakish factors. Westley Hartnett’s prompt arrival home; The Shadow’s unforeseen delay on the avenue; the crafty strategy of Chun Shi!
Westley Hartnett was dead. His slayer was gone, leaving no clew to his identity. Yet The Shadow, as he viewed the lawyer’s body with his searching eyes, knew well that death had struck but a few minutes before; and that there was but one avenue by which the slayer could have departed.
GAZING from the window, the keen-eyed investigator noted the ledge that ran beneath the line of windows. The Shadow knew that some swift-moving creature must have effected a rapid escape; that pursuit would not serve to overtake him.
A low, whispered laugh sounded in the dim room. It was a sibilant mockery of keen determination, The Shadow’s sinister cry of vengeance. Evil had triumphed here tonight. Whoever the unknown slayer might be, he would most certainly never succeed in taking another life!
The Shadow was reviewing words that he had heard spoken only a few nights ago — the cold analysis which Doctor Ward Zelka had made in Brindle’s restaurant. Westley Hartnett was one who blocked a crooked scheme. His elimination would further anyone who might plan for ill-gained wealth.
The Shadow’s thoughts went further. They were no longer concerned with the affairs of Westley Hartnett. The lawyer could not be restored to life. Another must be considered; one who was still alive.
Blaine Goodall! After Westley Hartnett, the president of the Huxley Corporation would prove a stumbling-block. Doom was due to strike again. How soon?
When crime was scheduled, The Shadow regarded it as an immediate menace. The master of detection never wasted time when fate had decreed that nothing more could be done.
Blaine Goodall, living, would need protection. Westley Hartnett, dead, required none.
The whispered laugh rebounded. Its echoes came back weirdly from the walls. When the last of those solemn sounds had ceased, the single-lighted room was occupied only by Westley Hartnett’s body.
The Shadow was gone. The successful craft of Chun Shi was but the first step in murderous crime. When the next stroke fell, The Shadow would there to fight it!
CHAPTER XI. THE SHADOW MOVES
A TALL, keen-visaged man entered the portal of the Union Club shortly after midnight — less than half an hour following the unfortunate death of Westley Hartnett. The doorman of the club bowed as he recognized the arrival.
Lamont Cranston was not a member of the Union Club, but he held a guest card there, and his appearance pleased the doorman.
It was not often that this prominent millionaire visited the place. Members had urged him to join the organization; the doorman, proud of the club’s prestige, had learned of this effort. He was quite obsequious when he spoke to Lamont Cranston by name.
The firm-faced millionaire nodded pleasantly and strolled through the lobby. His gaze turned toward the lounge room. His ears caught the sound of a protesting voice. Cranston stopped to watch a heated discussion between a fat-faced gentleman and an attendant.
“I tell you that Mr. Goodall must be here,” argued the fat-faced club member. “He promised to wait for me — to wait until twelve o’clock—”
“I know that, Mr. Beecham,” interposed the attendant. “But when I received your telephone message—”
“I didn’t phone here!” blurted Beecham.
“I understand, sir,” said the attendant. “Let me tell you exactly what occurred. I answered the telephone, and was told that the call was from you. I was instructed to tell Mr. Goodall that you could not join him on his trip to Trenton. I did so; Mr. Goodall left.”
“Who called you?”
“I don’t know, sir.”
“Preposterous!” puffed Conrad Beecham. “I never told anyone to call here. Where was Mr. Goodall when you saw him last?”
“He was sitting right here, sir” — the attendant indicated a large chair — “and he seemed rather annoyed when I informed him you were not coming—”
“I never said that I would not join him!” snorted Beecham. “This is an outrage! I am going up to Goodall’s room. It will be fortunate for you if he is there. This may mean your dismissal, my man!”
The attendant shrugged his shoulders as Beecham stormed from the lounge room. He followed in the fat fellow’s wake.
Lamont Cranston, a silent witness of the scene, slowly puffed upon a cigarette and strolled over toward the spot where the attendant had said that Blaine Goodall had been seated.
A TRIP to Trenton.
To a keen sleuth, this would have been regarded as a perfect clew. A broad highway led from New York to Trenton. By following that route, one could overtake a man who was traveling at normal speed.