Maxwell Grant
The Man From Shanghai
As originally published in “The Shadow Magazine,” April 15, 1936.
The man from Shanghai was caught in a murderous web involving millions of dollars that only The Shadow could untangle.
CHAPTER I – A MURDERER’S MOVES
THE man by the fireplace was busy at a task. Before him, turned at an angle to escape the fire’s heat, was a low table, stacked with correspondence. The letters were at the man’s left; to his right were pen and inkwell.
The man was reading the typewritten letters in methodical fashion. As he completed each perusal, he placed the letter in front of him, dipped pen into inkwell and applied his signature with a peculiar flourish.
The name that the man signed was Kenneth Malfort.
The crackling fire raised grotesque flares to reveal Malfort’s face. Somehow, flames seemed the proper light to show that countenance. Malfort’s countenance was one that at intervals betrayed a demonish glare. At those moments, an imaginative observer might have classed him as a satan who had chosen to masquerade in human cruise.
Except for those intervals, Malfort’s face was steady, almost dignified. His features were craggy, from his high forehead, past his well-formed nose, to his straight lips and large chin. His profile was an excellent one, always constant. It was only the full-face view that showed those evil flashes.
Then came a narrowing of forehead muscles that brought straight vertical lines above the bridge of Malfort ’s nose. The man’s eyes shone with evil glint. His lips compressed, to purse themselves into a smileless leer. Though smooth-shaven, Malfort could have passed for Mephistopheles whenever he allowed malice to rule his countenance.
Malfort was signing the last letter when he caught a sound that only the keenest ear could have detected. A tall, moon-faced man had stepped into the sumptuous room. With pussyfoot tread, the arrival had advanced four steps; then waited. Despite the man’s silent approach, Malfort had instantly detected the entry. Without a turn of his head, Malfort purred a question: “What is it, Wardlock?”
“Spark Ganza is here, sir,” replied the moon-faced man, in a solemn monotone. “He arrived by the rear entrance.”
“Tell him to come up.”
“Very well, Mr. Malfort.”
“Then bring the newspapers, Wardlock. After that, see to the prompt posting of these letters.”
Wardlock bowed. In his sneaky stride, he went from the room.
MALFORT arose, placed the table and its letters to one side; then resumed his easy-chair. Side to the fire, he was facing an empty chair several feet away.
There was a click as the door opened. Malfort’s face was expressionless as he turned his gaze toward the door. A brawny, thick-set ruffian stepped into view; this was “Spark” Ganza. Hard-faced, sharp-eyed, the fellow had the pudgy nose of a second-rate pugilist and the underslung jaw of a bulldog.
“Hello, Mr. Malfort,” gruffed Spark, showing an ugly grin as he approached. “I got your message and hot-footed it over here -”
“Sit down, Spark.” Malfort waved to the chair. Then, still eyeing his visitor, he added in louder tone: “Let me have those newspapers, Wardlock. Take the letters with you.”
Spark gaped as he looked toward the door. He had not heard Wardlock reenter; he thought that the moon-faced secretary had stayed downstairs. Yet there, sure enough, was Wardlock, with a stack of newspapers in his hands. The secretary approached and laid the journals on the table at Malfort’s side. Gathering up the letters, Wardlock pussyfooted from the room.
Malfort and Spark were alone.
“Yesterday,” announced Malfort, choosing a newspaper from the stack, “you did a good job, Spark. I was pleased with the murder of Jerome Blessingdale.”
“It was a cinch,” returned Spark. “We hopped aboard the Southeastern Limited when it pulled into Baltimore. Blessingdale was asleep in his compartment. I tapped him on the konk and took the swag. Nobody saw us drop off the rattler at Philly.”
“Quite true,” nodded Malfort. “I have read the Philadelphia newspapers, Spark. They say very little; the general opinion is that the crime investigation belongs to the New York police, since Blessingdale’s death was not uncovered until after the train arrived here.”
“Everybody knows, though, that Blessingdale was rubbed out.”
“Of course. However, Blessingdale, as a mining promoter, had made enemies. It was quite all right to let his death pass as murder.”
Malfort laid the back-date newspaper aside. He picked up a later newspaper. His face took on its devilish glare. Spark, hard though he was, became uneasy.
“Today’s job was not so good. Spark.”
Spark had no reply to Malfort’s criticism.
“I was not pleased with the way you eliminated William Hessup,” admonished Malfort. “His death at the Merrimac Club was to have been considered a suicide. Hessup had no enemies; but, as president of a bank in Buffalo, he had some worries. Unfortunately, the police believe that he was murdered.”
“They don’t know who did it, though,” protested Spark. “We grabbed the swag all right, Mr. Malfort -”
“Nevertheless, you bungled!”
Spark shifted in his chair. Malfort’s glare was straight upon him. The firelight gave a demoniac reflection to the master mind’s fierce eyes. Spark avoided Malfort’s gaze.
“I’m making no excuse,” growled Spark. “I should have watched those lugs more close, that’s all. The idea was all right; but there was a slip -”
“Start with the beginning of the matter.”
“All right.”
SPARK leaned back in his chair and faced Malfort. The latter’s features had relaxed. Spark felt more at ease. “First I went to see Durlew,” he stated. “He’s the druggist I told you about. He gave me two bottles: the little one, empty, with the Northern Drug Company label on it; and the big one, with the poison in it.”
Spark paused. Malfort had no comment.
“It was a cinch to get into the Merrimac Club,” resumed Spark. “We knowed Hessup was coming there. We had the number of the room he was going to take. So one guy goes in and plants the empty bottle.
“As soon as Hessup shows up, I send the other lug, so as nobody would be suspicious if they saw one guy twice. He takes a pitcher of ice water with a glass and carries it up to Hessup’s room, without Hessup ringing for it. That’s where the lug pulls his boner, thinking he was smart.
“He was to put a dose of poison in the glass, like you said; then, polite-like, he was to let Hessup see him drop some ice into the glass. For a come-on, like you told me.”
Malfort nodded.
“Quite right,” he agreed. “Hessup would have been inclined to pour himself a drink of water. He would have considered the poison liquid as water, melted from the ice.”
“That’s what I told the lug,” expressed Spark, sourly. “But I didn’t tell him how important it was, to work it just that way. So he gets a smart idea and stages his boner.”
“Which was -”
“He pours the whole bottle of poison into the pitcher of ice water. He lets Hessup see an empty glass; then fills it for him from the pitcher. Hessup takes the invite, all right, and he gets enough of the bum stuff to croak him. But the bottle with the poison in it was bigger than the empty bottle that we’d planted in Hessup’s room!”
Malfort thwacked the newspaper that he held.
“So that was it!” he exclaimed. Then, reverting to his easy purr: “Naturally, the police found evidence of more poison than the little bottle could have held. No wonder they classed Hessup’s death as murder!”
“Yeah,” agreed Spark. He nudged a thumb toward the newspaper: “But the bulls didn’t let the bladders in on why they thought it was murder. They didn’t want nobody to wise up that there was too much of the croak-juice in the pitcher. All they said was that the bottle they found didn’t prove that Hessup bumped himself.”