Assuming that the far side and the front of the penthouse were also equipped with barred windows, The Shadow moved back in the direction from which he had come. Gripping the bars of a window, he scaled the ten feet to the penthouse roof and rolled upon the flat surface.
Raising his head slightly, The Shadow saw that he was just above the level of the warehouse across the rear street. He noted that the warehouse roof was topped by a concrete rail.
THERE was reason to lie low on the penthouse roof. Here, the surface was visible in the flickering brilliance of lights from the Times Square district. The Shadow had scaled the hotel wall that was away from the lights; the building itself had blocked the glow. His present position was one that could be observed from any higher structure; although the nearest taller building was more than a block away, The Shadow would be visible if he roamed too openly.
The roof of the penthouse was light gray in color. Only by keeping close against the surface could The Shadow be sure of escaping possible observation.
A square patch of blackness showed against the roof. Crawling, The Shadow reached it. The patch was a trapdoor. It was heavily bolted in place.
Close to the black square, The Shadow worked upon the bolts. He used a pair of compact pliers in his task. The bolts yielded stubbornly. When he had finally loosened them, The Shadow tested the trapdoor. He found it loose. The trap had no fastening beneath.
Edging the lidlike surface upward, The Shadow peered within. He was looking into a small hall, dimly lighted. All that he saw was a tufted Chinese rug of streamer shape. The hall was silent and deserted. Twisting about, The Shadow slid his body beneath the half raised trap, feet-first.
The Shadow’s left hand clung to the edge of the opening, while his body dangled down into the hallway. His right was easing the trapdoor, settling it into closed position.
At the final inch, The Shadow loosened his left-hand grip. The trapdoor clamped with a barely audible thump; simultaneously, The Shadow dropped down into the hall. The tufted rug broke the sound of his arrival.
There were heavy curtains at each end of the hall; The Shadow knew that no noise could have penetrated. The curtain slit at one end showed darkness; at the other, light. The Shadow chose the latter. Approaching silently, he parted the curtains to look into a living room.
The room was furnished in Oriental fashion; but its contents were not restricted to any one type. The Shadow saw Chinese taborets; decorations that had come from Burma; a solemn Buddha that was of Hindu workmanship.
Seated in a teakwood chair of Javanese construction was a stalwart, broad-shouldered man, clad in baggy trousers and shirt sleeves. The Shadow studied a square, blunt-featured face that was adorned with a short-clipped mustache. He knew that this man was Major Philip Rowden.
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.