Spark grinned in anticipation.
“He must not be disturbed when he enters,” reminded Malfort. “We want no trouble at the Maribar Hotel. Keep the area covered, as usual. Be at your station, ready for a call from Barthow at the desk. He will notify you when Furbish calls at Rowden’s.”
“I get it,” nodded Spark. “Barthow tips us off. We close in while Furbish is in the penthouse. We nab Furbish afterward, instead of before.”
“Exactly!”
With an imperious gesture, Malfort dismissed his lieutenant. When Spark was gone, the archplotter turned to Ku-Nuan, who had been listening eagerly to every word.
“Go, Ku-Nuan,” ordered Malfort. “Watch the penthouse from your secret post.”
Ku-Nuan’s eyes gleamed snakelike. Twisting from his chair, the yellow killer sidled to the door. His creeping footsteps faded.
Alone, Malfort stretched his hands before the fire and spread a smile that the firelight painted into a demon’s leer.
Kenneth Malfort had set a double snare. He was satisfied that either George Furbish or The Shadow would enter the twofold mesh.
CHAPTER VI – THE MAN FROM SHANGHAI
IT was a long trip from Chinatown to the Maribar Hotel. Moreover, The Shadow delayed his journey by a halt along the way. He stopped to make telephone contact with his agents, to learn that there had still been no sign of George Furbish at the Royal Arms. The Shadow gave orders for agents to maintain their vigil.
By the time The Shadow reached the vicinity of the Maribar, men of crime had already gained their posts. Spark Ganza and his thugs were stationed; so was Ku-Nuan. Nevertheless, there was no evidence to prove that they were about.
Malfort’s ways were cunning. The master crook was shrewd enough to keep Spark and his crew far enough from the hotel to escape observation, yet near enough to be ready on call. As for Ku-Nuan, Malfort knew that the catlike killer could keep under cover anywhere. Ku-Nuan had taken a closer post, without the knowledge of other watchers.
The Maribar Hotel was a twenty-story structure that formed a thin shaft among side street buildings, not far from Times Square. As The Shadow’s taxi rolled along the side street, its keen-eyed occupant sensed the danger of the neighborhood.
Here were old buildings, scheduled to be torn down. Low-built garages; an abandoned theater; converted dwellings that housed ground-floor restaurants, with empty floors above – these were suitable nests for hidden hordes of thugs. If crooks so chose, they could make the Maribar Hotel the center of a death zone.
Among the spots that The Shadow noticed was an old office building half a block away from the hotel. It was tenanted, but open at night only to persons who had keys. That office building was the actual headquarters for Spark Ganza and his crew.
The Shadow was more interested in his approach to the Maribar Hotel. Crooks could lurk as they chose, provided that The Shadow’s present plans succeeded. His goal was the penthouse; if crooks had to be met along the route, The Shadow intended to draw them, rather than seek their lair.
The Shadow spoke an order to the driver of the cab. The taxi slowed as it neared the Maribar, to let another cab swing in front of it. Passengers alighted, to enter the hotel. The Shadow dropped off a moment later. He was dressed in street clothes; he was carrying a suitcase. The doorman was taking other luggage into the hotel; The Shadow entered promptly without delivering his bag to an attendant.
THE lights of the garish lobby showed The Shadow’s features as he neared the desk. He was wearing the make-up of the night before; that full visage in which he had introduced himself as George Furbish.
Behind the desk was a smug, sleek-haired night clerk. On the desk was a small stand that bore the clerk’s name “Mr. Barthow.” The Shadow watched other guests register; he stepped forward and registered himself as Henry Arnaud.
Glancing upward, The Shadow kept watch on Barthow. The clerk showed no special interest in the new guests. He simply assigned rooms and called for bell boys.
The Shadow rode up in an elevator to the fourteenth floor. During the trip, he eyed the operator. Walking through the corridor, he carefully observed the bell hop who was carrying his bag. Both were as neutral in type as Barthow. Neither betrayed any trace of recognition when they saw The Shadow’s features.
Alone in his room, The Shadow extinguished the lights. He opened his suitcase, produced garments of black. Donning his cloak and hat, he placed a brace of automatics beneath his inky garb. Approaching the door, The Shadow opened it and edged out into the corridor.
Inspection indicated that The Shadow was unwatched. The conclusion that he formed was accurate. If crooks were stationed here at the Maribar Hotel, they were merely spies who had a single duty: to report on all persons who inquired for Major Rowden or who showed interest in the penthouse.
Whether such underlings belonged to Major Rowden, or whether they were secret enemies of the Britisher, were matters which could be learned later. One fact was evident, however: no spotters who had been at the Royal Arms were here at the Maribar Hotel.
The Shadow had proven that by wearing the same facial guise. Crooks who had seen the false George Furbish would have recognized Henry Arnaud. That would have meant immediate concentration upon The Shadow’s room. Yet there was not the slightest indication of any spy upon the fourteenth floor.
RETURNING to his room, The Shadow closed the door and approached the window. Opening it, he gained a side view from the hotel, across low-lying buildings. Peering toward the rear street, he saw the looming bulk of a blank-walled warehouse directly across the narrow street. It was the only near-by structure that rivaled the hotel in height.
Looking upward, The Shadow saw rows of ornamental ledges that marked the upper floors of the hotel. There was such a ledge below his own window; it was less than a foot in width. Nevertheless, it suited The Shadow for his next venture.
Swinging from the window, The Shadow found a foothold on the ledge. The Shadow began a beetlelike, upward course. Clutching a stone above the window, he raised his tall form and stretched to the cornice above. Gripping the ledge, he pulled himself to the fifteenth floor. There, he found a blank window; used it to reach the sixteenth.
A lighted window offered an obstacle. The sixteenth-story room was occupied and The Shadow did not care to attract the notice of persons within. Instead of climbing, he moved sidewise along the ledge until he reached a darkened window. There, he climbed smoothly to the seventeenth floor.
The Shadow was forced to make another side trip at the nineteenth. Above it, he had no trouble with the twentieth. The final cornice marked the roof of the hotel; it projected so far outward that The Shadow was forced to swing precariously above a yawning space two hundred feet in depth. He accepted the hazard as a routine of the climb. Clambering over the ledge, The Shadow flattened upon a shelf three feet in width.
The cloaked climber was beside the wall of the penthouse. From his vantage point, The Shadow made a survey.
The penthouse occupied a front corner of the roof; The Shadow was at the side where it stood close to the edge. There were windows in the wall; all were fitted with heavy bars. At the nearest window, The Shadow saw a narrow streak of light. It was the slit between a pair of heavy curtains that masked the interior.
Following the wall, The Shadow came to the end, halfway along the roof. Peering past the corner of the penthouse, he viewed barred windows in the rear wall. Diagonally away was a high water tower, with bulky wooden legs as its supporting trestle. It was too far from the penthouse to offer access to the flat roof of the chunky building.