THE Britisher was puffing at a meerschaum pipe. His ruddy face was wrinkled as his sharp eyes studied the columns of a newspaper. Beside him, on a handy taboret, rested a bulky service revolver.
Parting the curtains, The Shadow stepped forward. His cloaked figure formed a streak across the floor; a blackened silhouette registered itself upon the major’s newspaper.
With a quick grunt, Rowden looked up. He saw The Shadow; he sped a hand for his big revolver. The move stopped, as The Shadow’s right hand whipped into view. The black-clad intruder had produced an automatic to halt Rowden’s act. At sight of the looming.45, the major froze rigidly. His eyes showed challenge, rather than fear.
Eye to eye, The Shadow met the major’s glare. Rowden’s lips moved, as if about to speak. They stopped before they gave utterance; a turn of Rowden’s eyes told The Shadow that something was due to strike. Quickly, The Shadow wheeled toward the curtains of the hall.
A tawny-faced attacker lunged forward in a leap. The Shadow caught a flash of colorful Oriental garb. Long arms drove toward him; swift fingers grabbed The Shadow’s gun. Fading, The Shadow met the drive with an upward twist of his left shoulder. His right arm came up beneath the attacker’s left; his left hand clutched the dark-faced man’s chin.
With a powerful heave, The Shadow sent the servant hurtling to the right. The attacker did a sprawly dive straight for Rowden. It was a timely stroke on The Shadow’s part, for the major had seized his gun and was swinging to aim. Half from his chair, Rowden was bowled over by his plunging servant. Bounced back into his chair, the major lost his gun. The dark-faced servant landed up against the wall, to blink in dizzy fashion as he came to hands and knees.
Master and servant stared alike into the muzzle of The Shadow’s automatic. Both were helpless, ready to hear whatever terms their conqueror might offer. Motionless, The Shadow waited while Major Rowden regained his scattered wits.
The Shadow had found the man from Shanghai. He was ready to learn what cause had brought Major Philip Rowden to New York.
CHAPTER VII – CRIME’S PURPOSE
MAJOR ROWDEN’S scrutiny of The Shadow produced a definite effect. Challenge faded from the Britisher’s eyes. Rowden raised his hands half upward, as token that he had no extra weapon. Propping an elbow against an arm of the teakwood chair, he brought himself to his feet.
With a smile, Rowden bowed a greeting to The Shadow. The welcome given, he turned to the astonished servant who was staring from beside the wall. Speaking in precise tones, Rowden stated:
“We have a guest, Peju. Bring the chair from the corner.”
Rowden inclined his head toward a second teakwood chair. Gingerly, Peju arose and went to the corner. He drew the chair toward The Shadow, faltering slightly as he saw the glint of burning eyes. The Shadow had fixed the fellow’s nationality. Peju was a Siamese.
“When one expects enemies,” remarked Major Rowden, dryly, “an unexpected visitor should prove to be a friend. Accept my apologies, sir, on behalf of myself and Peju. Our mutual surprise caused us to act hastily.”
The Shadow placed his automatic beneath his cloak. In low-toned voice, he spoke to Rowden:
“Dismiss the servant.”
Rowden gestured to Peju. The Siamese went through the curtains. Calmly, The Shadow removed his hat, dropped his cloak and lay the garments on a taboret. He took the teakwood chair that the servant had brought forward. Rowden also sat down, staring in puzzled fashion.
The major had not expected to see so mild a countenance as the one The Shadow wore. It was a short while before Rowden realized that his visitor’s visage must be a disguise. Then Rowden slowly nodded his understanding. He was not surprised when he heard The Shadow speak in a different tone that better suited his present appearance.
“Your visit to New York has excited comment, major,” remarked The Shadow. “That is the reason why I have paid this unexpected call.”
Rowden nodded. His face became quizzical. He put a blunt question: “May I ask your name?”
The Shadow’s gaze became reflecting. He spoke in leisurely tone. “Last night,” he announced, “my name was George Furbish.”
An exclamation came from Major Rowden.
“No!” uttered the Englishman. “It cannot be! Furbish was not -”
“Not in New York last night?”
The Shadow interposed the question as Rowden paused. The major hesitated; chewed his lips. Finally, he nodded. The Shadow’s guess was correct.
“I passed as George Furbish,” declared The Shadow. “I went to his apartment at the Royal Arms. There I was attacked by an assassin – a yellow-faced killer from Shanghai. A twisted dwarf whose name -”
The Shadow paused abruptly. It was Rowden who exclaimed, “Ku-Nuan!”
CALMLY, The Shadow nodded. Rowden stared nervously, beating his right fist against his open left palm. He wanted to talk; but moments of suspicion brought hesitation. He feared that this visit might be a trick to make him speak. At last, Rowden faced The Shadow’s eyes. Something in their steady glow convinced him that he was dealing with a friend.
“I am reluctant to speak,” declared Rowden, “but, after all, speech can do no harm. Nor can it injure others, who are already marked to die. My enemies could enter openly; they would gain little by subterfuge. Therefore, I shall accept you as a friend. You are one who can aid me.”
Rowden stopped, to await The Shadow’s reply. In easy tone, The Shadow informed:
“I have linked the deaths of Blessingdale and Hessup. I know that Furbish is connected. I want to know the purpose behind crime.”
Rowden nodded. He turned on his heel and approached a cabinet in the corner. Opening the door, he revealed large stacks of silver dollars; there were thousands of such coins. From a shelf above the money, Rowden produced a wide, flat box. He brought it to the taboret beside The Shadow. Opening the box, Rowden displayed a mass of glimmering jewels.
Facets of diamonds glittered in many hues as they caught the mellow light of the room. Rubies glowed like ruddy coals. Emeralds sparkled their verdant brilliance. The deep blue of sapphires was present in the display, intermingled with the magnificence of other gems. Mounted in settings of dull gold, the stones gained added splendor.
“These gems,” announced Rowden, in a hushed tone, “were once the property of the dowager Empress of China. Last relics of the former Manchu dynasty, they are now the property of the Chinese government. My mission is to convert them into money; half a million pounds sterling – two and a half millions of American dollars.”
Leaving the jewels within The Shadow’s reach, Rowden returned to his chair and pointed toward the cabinet.
“The silver that you see there,” he explained, “was given me for traveling expenses. I brought more than six thousand dollars with me, in the one form of available currency that would be negotiable: silver dollars.”
Rowden leaned forward and picked up his meerschaum from the floor. The revolver was lying beside it; taking the weapon by the barrel, the major placed the gun on the taboret with the jewels. Reaching to a humidor, he stuffed his pipe with tobacco. Lighting a match, he puffed; then leaned back and spoke in precise fashion.
“THE Chinese government needs cash,” explained Rowden. “The exodus of silver had depleted the treasury. Even Mexican dollars are scarce. It was difficult for me to obtain the American dollars that I needed for my journey. I am one of several emissaries who have been sent to acquire suitable funds.
“I was told to sell these jewels to wealthy Americans, for United States currency. Paper money, bank notes – those will be quite satisfactory, for they can be converted into silver without difficulty. There are wealthy Chinese who will give their government silver money in return for American paper dollars.”