The Shadow - The Black Dragon Part 7

CHAPTER XII.

THE MAN WHO MOCKED DEATH.

POLICE sirens were on the shriek when Steve Trask alighted from the car that he had met at Gotham Court. By this time, Steve had straightened a few facts to his own satisfaction. For one thing, he'd decided that this wasn't The Shadow's cab converted into something else.

It probably was the commissioner's own car, though Steve wasn't sure about the chauffeur. However, everything fitted plausibly. Probably Cranston had managed to borrow the car for the evening. Being Tam's friend, Cranston might know The Shadow, too. It all fitted.

As for the sirens, they didn't matter. n.o.body would bother the commissioner's car. Steve watched it pull away, then turned to look at the place where the car had dropped him. As he did, a sense of unreality seized him.

The place looked like an oversized mausoleum, a granite structure two stories high that didn't belong in New York at all. It occupied the corner of a short, dead-end street where Steve saw a blocking wall of stone that ran across to an old brick building that looked deserted.

For that matter, the gray pile looked empty, too, and when Steve lookedat the inscription carved above its door he could almost read the word "Mausoleum,"

which was already in his mind. Then, while his bewilderment was actually increasing, his eyes made out the inscription more plainly.

Steve's imagination had added a few letters that weren't there. Instead of "Mausoleum," the inscription said: "Museum."

There was another word above, a name which Steve finally identified as "Norland." He had never heard of the Norland Museum.

Seeing a big bell beside the barred front door, Steve rang it. The door opened promptly and Steve was ushered into a foyer from which he could see the interior of an exhibit room, which was lined with stuffed heads of queer animals, along with elephant tusks, turtle sh.e.l.ls, snake skins and other sizable knickknacks.

Footsteps sounded from a corridor. Steve turned and saw another attendant joining the one who had admitted him. Odd characters, these, men who were furtive, yet ugly. Maybe it was the poor light that gave their faces a clay color above the frayed collars of their drab uniforms.

Home to Steve came the sudden, startling thought that these attendants were too like some of the Oriental dregs who served the Black Dragon. Polynesians of a mixed caste was the best way to define them - or the worst. Yet the men were polite as they bowed Steve into the large trophy room, which seemed the princ.i.p.al portion of the Norland Museum.

As Steve's footsteps echoed hollow on the tiled floor, he heard others coming toward him. Stopping abruptly, Steve faced a man who stepped from a doorway at the rear. The man was an American whose face was long and oval in shape. Steve was taking in details of thin eyebrows, thin hair above an elongated forehead, when the man's eyes fixed upon him.

Droopy eyes, with lids like shields, above straight nose and lips. With the merest flicker, the man raised his eyelids just far enough to survey Steve thoroughly. Then the man spoke in a drawly tone.

"I am Craig Norland. I suppose you came to look at the collection of weapons? Most people do."

Norland gestured Steve into the rear room, which was smaller but well-stocked. It contained many odd weapons, but Steve was unable to identify any except boomerangs and blow-guns, so Norland politely cla.s.sified others for him. The droopy man pointed out a weapon which was hanging on a small door at the rear of the room. Norland stated: "A Filipino barong."

The barong was a two-foot sword that widened between hilt and point, but the really curious feature was its scabbard. The blade was sheathed between

two.

fitted slabs of wood, held crudely together by thongs. Through the primitive lacings, Steve could see a very sharp edge. So tight were the thongs that Steve began to wonder how anyone could unsheathe a barong, if in a hurry.

"My grandfather went in for big game," remarked Norland. "So I made weapons my hobby. I thought the combination would be appropriate, particularly as we both traveled extensively in the Orient."

Steve was about to ask what part of the Orient interested Norland most, when he stopped himself. Glancing warily back across his shoulder, Steve heard Norland chuckle. A moment later, the back door of the museum was opening outward and Norland's hand was clamped firmly on Steve's shoulder, guiding the visitorthrough.

They were stepping into a high-walled garden in back of the museum, but for the moment Steve wasn't interested in such nearby surroundings. He was looking off above the wall toward the top of a great, sweeping superstructure that curved from one huge pillar off to another that seemed distant in the night.

The structure was one of the great suspension bridges that crossed the East River. This garden in back of the Norland Museum was located on the river bank itself. Oddly, the wall seemed specially designed to prevent anyone from looking into the garden.

For example, Steve could see the superstructure of the bridge, but not the roadway. Beyond the rear wall, he spied the pa.s.sing smokestack of a steamer, but couldn't quite see the topmost deck.

The museum itself cut off any view from the Manhattan side, and putting those facts together, Steve lowered his gaze to the garden to learn why it was too unique to be submitted to public gaze. In one glance, Steve understood.

This was a j.a.panese garden!

LITERALLY, this product of Nippon might have been uprooted from the yard of Hirohito's own palace and transplanted to New York. It was a chunk of j.a.pan in miniature, with an undersized paG.o.da no higher than the wall, a squatty Shinto shrine, humped bridges crossing a ca.n.a.l that ran between two pools that teemed with golden carp.

There were beds of exotic flowers, a crude water wheel that turned under the constant pressure of a small, flowing stream. As Norland gestured Steve around the premises, more features came into view; one, for instance, being a pool so thick with lily pads and flowers that it looked like a solid, earthen bed.

They reached the squatty Shinto structure which stood shoulder-high.

Norland opened its door and disclosed a peculiar curved sword in a scabbard of the same shape.

"A j.a.panese samurai sword," explained Norland. "It must never be drawn from its scabbard except for shedding blood. I am a stickler for such traditions, Trask."

Steve stared. He couldn't understand how Norland had guessed his name.

Whereat Norland laughed quite heartily.

"I have no love for the j.a.panese," sneered Norland. "None except so far as their arts and crafts are concerned. I shipped these mementos back here, piece by piece. Why should I sacrifice them because j.a.pan has become unpopular?"

With a smile at his own mild way of putting it. Norland gestured toward the wall around the garden.

"Instead, I have seen that these souvenirs should remain hidden," resumed Norland. "I consider myself a man without a country, hence free to collect the trophies of every land. You have an oddity which I should like to add to those I.

already own."

REMOVING his strong hand from Steve's shoulder, Norland extended his palm upward and ordered: "Give me the jet dragon." Mechanically, Steve placed the death token inNorland's palm, where it looked quite puny. Norland grated a laugh.

"I suppose the Black Dragon thought he could scare me by having a notorious murderer bring this token. Is that it, Trask?"

Things flashed home to Steve. Norland was using guesswork. First, he'd guessed who Steve was; that part was correct. But now he was guessing wide, in cla.s.sing Steve as a server of the Black Dragon.

"You have it wrong, Norland," argued Steve. "That little knickknack is

one.

the Black Dragon handed me through a j.a.p stooge named Sujan. The curse was supposed to get me, but it didn't."

"Crawling out of it!" scoffed Norland. "Well, I should have expected it.

The Black Dragon knows enough about me."

WITH a swoop, Norland produced a sizable tin box from a shelf above the samurai sword.

"Here's what the Black Dragon wants!" he stormed. "The money I brought back from Shanghai. His crowd tried to get it from me there, and there were two less when I finished. You think you're a killer, Trask." Norland's sneer was back.

"The Black Dragon must think it, too, or he wouldn't have sent you. He knows I'm a killer, because I've never tried to hide the history of my souvenirs. I've used every weapon to dispose of a victim, and in most cases it was outright murder!"

Norland gestured toward the open door of the museum where the barong was hanging in sight, as a sample of other deadly weapons. Replacing the tin box on its shelf, Norland folded his rangy arms, as though inviting Steve to attempt the first thrust. The long, strained silence was broken by the howl of police sirens, wailing weirdly through the neighborhood.

"Killer meets killer," snorted Norland. "The difference between us is only this, Trask. I do my murders outside the realm of jurisprudence. You can't call it crime, where there isn't any law. That's how I acquired the wealth that the Black Dragon wants."

Norland's tone rang too true to be doubted. He was a man who mocked death, particularly that of his own making, a calloused murderer, self-admitted, contemptuous of those belonging to his ilk, in which he included Steve.

"I could kill you with pleasure, Trask," continued Norland in a grating tone. "I have a weapon that is itching for someone's blood!"

Thinking of the barong, Steve swung hastily about. Across one of the humped bridges he saw the open door, with its hanging, slab-sheathed sword. Steve was nearer to that vantage point than Norland, but it didn't help.

In the doorway stood the two clay-faced attendants, both with drawn revolvers; behind them, another pair, evidently here at Norland's order!

"There is no escape," sneered Norland, his voice coming from Steve's shoulder. "You were recognized the moment you arrived. One of my men phoned the police commissioner at his club to tell him that you were here, bringing a death token."

Steve could still hear sirens wailing outside the garden walls. He wondered how the police had arrived so soon. But the sooner they appeared, the soonerSteve's death would be. For it was quite obvious that Norland intended to kill Steve. He was a man with blood-l.u.s.t, Norland, and he would receive no penalty for disposing of a victim already wanted for murder!

Wondering why the servants didn't shoot, Steve turned suddenly and saw Norland. Gunfire wasn't necessary in Steve's case. From the Shinto shrine, Norland was taking the samurai sword, which once drawn from its scabbard, would have to be dyed with blood!

In order to use both hands, Norland was pocketing the tiny jet dragon. As he did, Norland announced: "There is only one reason why the Black Dragon sent you here, Trask. He knew that when you delivered this, I would dispose of you for him. The messenger who brings such a token is never the killer. Murder is always left to others."

Murder left to others!

Even as Norland was drawing the samurai sword, a wave of hope swept Steve.

Eager to take Steve's life, Norland had forgotten that he, himself, was marked for death by the fact that he had received a jet dragon!

Springing suddenly away from Norland's blade, Steve sped a glance to the museum door and saw that the guns of the foremost attendants had not budged.

They weren't trained on Steve, those weapons; they were pointed straight at Norland! The attendants were traitors brought out by the Black Dragon!

They were giving Norland his chance to kill Steve. After that, they would blast Norland by order of the Black Dragon. As Steve dashed for a humped bridge, with Norland close behind him, the two servants charged from their doorway.

SOMETHING whirred the air behind Steve's neck. It was the samurai sword, missing by a mere three inches. Steve tried to take a shortcut across a flower bed.

By mistake, Steve picked one of the shallow lily ponds. Tripping knee-deep among the pads, he was hardly out the other side before Norland was full upon him, poising the samurai blade for a terrific, murderous downswing.

From another angle, the two attendants were arriving with their guns, to cut Steve off from the museum. Under the shelter of the eight-foot paG.o.da, Steve was trapped in the most distant corner of the garden. His lurch ending in a sprawl against the stone wall itself, he could no more than turn and fling his arms upward in an effort too futile to ward off the coming swing of Norland's sword.

At that moment, when the death stroke seemed as good as home, Steve heard the only token that could bring a respite.

The laugh of The Shadow!

CHAPTER XIII.

TRIUMPH'S FAILURE.

THE SHADOW'S laugh ended in a shivering crash. Not the sort of crash that its echoes would normally produce, but a splintering sound that came with an increasing smash. Looking up, Steve saw blackness enveloping everything, blotting out Norland and his waving sword, eradicating the two gunners who were also lunging into the scene.

A block of blackness, much larger than The Shadow - such was the thing thatripped a path among the murderers. The squatty paG.o.da, pride of Norland's j.a.panese garden, was hurling downward like a mammoth bludgeon upon the inhuman killers just beneath it!

From the low roof of the toppled tower, Steve saw a cloaked figure spring to the ground beyond. Landing on his feet, The Shadow was full about with a drawn automatic, ready to add new feats of rescue.

Only The Shadow could have staged this sudden surprise. With all the police in town hot on the trail of the commissioner's car, it hadn't taken them long to spot the vehicle that pa.s.sed for it. They'd reported the chase by short wave, from the very start, and The Shadow, listening in, had promptly headed for the neighborhood where it began.

The most conspicuous building thereabouts was the Norland Museum. Knowing something of its history. The Shadow had picked it as the place where Steve must have gone. Rather than batter at the huge front portals, he'd tried the wall along the water front.

He was just in time, The Shadow, to see the chase reach the paG.o.da corner.

He'd needed more than gunfire to take out three fighters at a clip, particularly when they were coming below his angle of range. Full force, he'd hurled himself upon the flimsy, ornamental paG.o.da and thrown it from its moorings and in among his foemen!

As yet, The Shadow hadn't learned that the attendants were traitors to their employer, Norland. What The Shadow had glimpsed looked like a ma.s.s attack, directed at Steve. Though jarred by the cracking paG.o.da, Norland and the other two weren't out of battle permanently. Moreover, The Shadow could see another pair of armed men coming from the rear door of the museum.

Hauling Steve to his feet, The Shadow started him on a quick circuit of the garden toward the museum door.

Half obscured by The Shadow's cloaked figure, Steve wasn't seen as he stumbled along. The Shadow didn't use the bridges, the way the second pair of attendants did. He cut through the flower beds, without picking lily ponds by mistake, made a detour past the water wheel, and finally gave Steve a quick shunt in through the open doorway.

By that time, snarls could be heard from the far corner of the garden, where the second pair of attendants were helping the others from the debris of the paG.o.da. Steve was hoping that they would find Norland in the wreckage and treat him as the Black Dragon had ordered.

That thought made Steve turn to tell The Shadow what it was all about. A bad mistake on Steve's part. He was forgetting that those traitors intended to let Norland kill him first!

Dumbly blocking The Shadow off from the doorway, Steve didn't have time to explain things. Already The Shadow had drawn a second gun, planning to stave off any attack. Half turned, he shouldered into Steve and lost his stride toward the doorway. Then, before Steve could gulp a single word, Norland was upon them!

THE man who reveled in murder had evidently dodged the paG.o.da's crash sufficiently to be at large again, with comparatively short delay. He'd made a short cut across the garden while The Shadow was taking the longer way about. Still anxious to murder Steve, Norland was intent upon chopping through any obstacles. Among such, he included The Shadow, at present the only thing that blocked his path. Again the curved samurai blade was sweeping under the impulse of a murderer's hand, this time for The Shadow's head!

What The Shadow did was most amazing.

Coming up and around in cross-armed style, he threw a hand straight for the whipping sword. In that hand, The Shadow gripped a heavy gun that caught the stroke in midair. But the force of the terrific blow drove the .45 from The Shadow's fist, hooking it through the doorway that Steve had unwisely abandoned.

Moreover, The Shadow was carried with the swing, landing against the open door itself. He hadn't time to get his other automatic into play; in fact, he needed a free hand to stop his fall. Again, The Shadow performed in uncanny style, letting the second gun go riding over his shoulder, straight to a man who could use it without delay: Steve Trask!