There was another click; the chain was loosened at Vincent’s feet. But would the Chinaman cut the bonds and remove the gag?
Vincent’s mind was working clearly now, and his heart sank.
Perhaps this was not a rescue. No friend could have penetrated to the depths of this fiendish lair. It must be another trick of the ruthless Wang Foo - to save his victim from one expected death only to conceive a more terrifying torture for him.
There was a sound at the doorway. Yes, there they were - the three giant Chinamen who had brought him to this dreadful room. They must have come to carry him away again, Vincent supposed.
The short, squatty Celestial turned his head at the sound of footsteps. He rose, and Vincent expected him to greet companions. But this was not to be.
Even in that dim light, the prisoner could see the look of amazement on the faces of the three giants. He could hear their angered hisses as they dashed into the room.
Sharp knives gleamed as the two leading Chinamen threw themselves at the rescuer who had released Vincent. The little, chunky man seemed to cower and draw away.
But, as the two giants were almost upon them, a strange thing happened.
The little Chinaman grew large; his body seemed to spread upward to almost a foot above his former height!
The stranger’s arm shot through the gloom to catch the first of the Chinese giants squarely upon the chin. The monster staggered then slumped to the floor. His companion jumped in, swinging a swift, upward knife-thrust for the midsection of Vincent’s rescuer.
With surprising alacrity, the latter turned his body and caught the wrist of his attacker. The huge yellow man was catapulted through the air, his knife skidding harmlessly across the room.
Meanwhile, the third Wang Foo minion was not idle. Thinking his two companions could handle the active opposition, he had turned to the captive lashed upon the floor.
He had stood for a short space of time contemplating he who had so miraculously escaped the cleaver. Then, having evidently decided to make up for the cleaver’s failure, he drew his knife and tested its point with his fingers while a wicked light shone from his squinting eyes.
Shortly thereafter he poised the knife above Vincent’s breast, then started his arm downward on its death-dealing journey. A strange, terrifying laugh suddenly pierced the room and Vincent closed his eyes.
That which followed was utter black confusion to Vincent. Only in a more peaceful interlude thereafter could he figure out the action that likely had transpired. Once again his unknown rescuer must have served him when sorely needed.
The stranger, Vincent decided, must have hurtled himself upon the back of Vincent’s attacker. For the huge Chinaman now lay motionless upon the floor, pierced to death by his own knife!
But there was no time then to ask questions. One of the two opponents who had earlier been temporarily accounted for had now recovered, and was wading in. Without pausing for breath, Vincent’s rescuer leaped from the floor, and, seizing the remaining giant by the arms, swung him over his shoulder, and carried him, struggling but helpless, to the door. With one great heave he flung the huge man headlong down the stairs. A great thump, and the groan that followed was sufficient proof that the third of Wang Foo’s warriors would fight no more.
The strange Chinaman, Vincent noticed, had resumed his squatty appearance. Picking up one of the knives, he cut Vincent’s bonds and helped the prisoner to his feet. He drew Vincent to the window, where the cooling air of dusk brought new strength to the weakened American.
Opening his coat, the Chinaman dropped a coil of rope that had been wound about his body. He fastened an end of the rope to one of the bars in the window, and fitted the other end about Vincent’s waist.
“Lean against the wall,” he whispered in perfect English. “Rest until I make an opening. Then you can drop to safety. The alley will take you to the street. Your cab will be waiting there.”
Vincent was too weak to do more than nod. The room was now almost dark. He could see nothing but the shadowy form of the Chinaman who had rescued him. Then he observed the man’s hands at the window.
They were slender hands, but they seemed to possess tremendous power. They were working at a bar, which was set firmly in the framework of the window. It seemed incredible that any human being could move that rod of iron; but as Vincent watched, he saw it bend - just the fraction of an inch.
The hands continued their work. The bar was yielding now, only a trifle more than before. The minutes were moving by; they were precious minutes, Vincent knew. The slim, powerful hands worked on.
The bar had assumed the form of a curve. Then suddenly the hands ceased to twist it. They were motionless, and Vincent knew that the man in the dark was listening. There was perfect silence for a moment.
Then, from the depths of the floor below, came four strokes of a Chinese gong.
The hands became active again. The bar began to move. It budged backward and forward, from side to side. Suddenly it snapped from its moorings, and the hands pulled it inward. The opening between the next bar and the window-frame was just large enough for a man to squeeze through.
“Hurry,” came the whisper from the gloom. “Through the window.”
Vincent clambered to the sill. He grasped the bar to which the rope had been attached, and pulled his body to the position desired. His rescuer, now invisible in the darkness, helped him push his way to the outer air.
“Steady,” came the whisper. “Make sure you have the upper end of the rope. Let yourself down easily. There will be time.”
Footsteps were stamping up the stairs. There was the sound of voices, half shouting in Chinese.
Vincent poised himself upon the outer edge of the window-sill. His rescuer had left him. He was faint, and he held himself there, while he breathed the refreshing air.
The scene in the room commanded his attention. While it lasted, he was transfixed; unable to find strength to lower himself to safety.
Bright flashlights gleamed from the doorway. Before their glare came four more of Wang Foo’s men, each with a ready knife. In the center of the room crouched the squatty Chinaman - if Chinaman he were - waiting for the onrush of his opponents.
As the men moved forward with a weird cry of triumph, the little man grew large again, and it seemed that he strangely chuckled. His hand swung upward, holding the iron bar that he had wrested from the window. His shadow, passing over the floor and up the farther wall, stood behind him like a huge, living monster.
Into the mass of Chinamen he sprang. His iron club swung right and left with mighty force. His enemies went sprawling to the floor. The men behind, who held the lights, were routed by the attack. Bodies fell tumbling through the doorway, and the lights went with them. In one valiant thrust, this amazing stranger had smashed his way to safety!
As Vincent’s hands grasped the rope, and he began his precarious trip to the ground, he heard an exultant sound come up the stairway.
It was a long, mocking laugh; a strange, unaccountable laugh; a laugh that would chill the heart of a man who had never known fear.
That parting jibe told the true identity of the strange rescuer who had chosen a Chinese disguise to enter the house of Wang Foo. Harry Vincent had heard the laugh of The Shadow!
CHAPTER XI
A BAFFLING MYSTERY
HARRY VINCENT reclined comfortably once more in an armchair in his room at the Metrolite Hotel. Three days had elapsed since the thrilling episode at the house of Wang Foo, the Chinese tea merchant, and the memory of his close escape from destruction still brought chills to Vincent’s spine.
He could hardly remember what had happened after his escape to the alleyway behind Wang Foo’s domicile. He knew that he had somehow managed to stagger to the street; that the driver of the green taxi had helped him into the cab, and that he had been brought directly to the Metrolite Hotel, where he had managed to pull himself together sufficiently to reach his room.