The Shadow found Ku-Nuan’s knife by the wall; he inspected it, tossed it into the bag beside the bed. He turned out the lights and listened, expecting the wail of a radio patrol car. It came. The police had heard the shots; they were starting an investigation.

More sirens whined. Fifteen minutes passed while The Shadow heard sounds of motors in neighboring streets. The noises ended. The police had failed to learn the source of the gunshots; they had also missed Ku-Nuan in their search.

There was a telephone in Furbish’s living room. The Shadow went in and turned on a floor lamp; he dialed a number and waited while he listened to a persistent ringing. At last, a voice spoke in English. The Shadow answered in Chinese. For several minutes, he babbled in that language; then ended the call.

Turning out the light, The Shadow returned to the darkened bedroom. He rolled into bed and settled into comfortable repose. There was no need for further vigil. There would be no new attack after Ku-Nuan’s failure. Thugs would be wary about venturing into a place that the yellow-faced assassin had fled.

Moreover, the law had served The Shadow. Crooks would surely have scattered when the patrol cars arrived. In his role of George Furbish, The Shadow was secure at last. Sleep was his present mission.

For tomorrow, The Shadow would resume his trail. His telephone call had made it unnecessary for him to seek Ku-Nuan until later.

CHAPTER V – TRAILS CROSS

IT was late the next afternoon when The Shadow strolled from the Royal Arms. He still wore his roundish-featured disguise; he nodded affably when the doorman addressed him as Mr. Furbish. Standing by the curb, The Shadow waited while the attendant hailed a taxi that was parked at the nearest hack stand.

This was The Shadow’s own cab, driven by one of his agents – Moe Shrevnitz. Other aids of The Shadow were in the vicinity; he had summoned them to keep watch during his absence, in case the real Furbish should arrive. The Shadow noted that his men were keeping well under cover.

A quarter block from the Royal Arms, The Shadow’s cab passed an old house with shuttered windows, that stood on the other side of the street. As they swung the corner, The Shadow observed a decadent antique shop that extended back to the old house. The Shadow spoke to the driver; the cab wheeled at the next corner. Riding through a narrow street, The Shadow saw a deserted store directly in back of the old house.

He was sure that the old house formed a lookout post for crooks; one that could serve them well, for it had three exits. Under other circumstances, The Shadow might have investigated those premises. Today, however, he avoided that task. If thugs were keeping tabs on the Royal Arms, The Shadow’s agents could offset them in a pinch. At present, The Shadow preferred to keep criminals lulled.

From the very beginning of crime’s swift sequence, The Shadow had recognized that he was dealing with a superman of evil. Though he had no clue to the identity of Kenneth Malfort, he could detect the hand of such a crimemaster.

Jerome Blessingdale had been the victim of bold murder; nevertheless, there had been no trail to the thugs who had slain the mining promoter aboard the Southeastern Limited. William Hessup had received prompt death at the Merrimac Club; another instance of evil work by underlings who had immediately scurried to cover.

There had been a lead in Hessup’s case: namely, Durlew. The druggist had been murdered before the law had a chance to even guess that he was in the game.

These facts produced The Shadow’s conclusion. He saw the existence of a master crook, who worked through a competent lieutenant. The chances were that lesser thugs had no knowledge of their real chief’s identity. To mix with small-fry would be a mistake. Such a course would give the master crook a key to The Shadow’s move.

The Shadow had pictured a lieutenant such as Spark Ganza. He believed that such a rogue had murdered Durlew, for the druggist’s death had been a one-man job. The Shadow had also concluded that there was another killer who had direct contact with the mastermind. That man was the yellow-faced assassin who had visited Furbish’s last night. A lone worker, that Mongol must have gained his orders from the top; not through any intermediary.

Traces of the yellow-faced assailant would be better than any other trail. They could produce a direct route to the master crook without other interference. That was why The Shadow had made his telephone call after Ku-Nuan’s departure. The Shadow was on his way to learn what effect his call had produced.

UNFOLLOWED, the taxi took a twisting course, tricky enough to shake off any pursuit. Dusk had settled when the cab halted on the outskirts of New York ’s Chinatown. The Shadow alighted; he was shrouded in his cloak of black.

Picking a gloomy stretch of sidewalk, The Shadow reached a narrow, darkened street. He proceeded along a twisty course until a turn showed a glare ahead. The Shadow was close to the lighted area of the Chinese district. Veering into an alleyway, he reached the front of a dimly lighted Chinese shop. Entering the store, The Shadow found it deserted. He pressed a panel at the rear wall. A secret door clicked open.

The Shadow entered a labyrinth of stone-walled passages. Steps led him down and up, from building to building, beneath streets that intervened. His course ended in front of a huge brass door. A knobbed stick was hanging by the barrier. The Shadow raised the stick and clanged a circle of brass in the center of the door.

The barrier slid upward. The Shadow entered a square room, where mellow light revealed paneled walls. In the center of the room stood a solemn-faced Chinaman, whose drooped mustache and long, thin beard gave dignity to his important bearing. The Celestial was clad in robes of deep maroon, adorned with dull-gold dragons. His eyes, firm and cold, were coal-black. They met The Shadow’s gaze.

The Chinaman was Yat Soon, known as the arbiter of Chinatown. Yat Soon was the judge who decided disputes between warring tongs. His word was law among the Chinese.

Yat Soon had expected The Shadow. The Chinaman delivered a profound bow, that brought a glitter from a crownlike headpiece that he wore. Motioning his visitor to a teakwood taboret, Yat Soon took a similar seat for himself.

The Shadow spoke words in Chinese. Solemnly, Yat Soon shook his head.

“There is no word,” said the Chinaman, in English. “We have found no sign of the evil man whom you seek.”

The Shadow questioned in Chinese. This time, Yat Soon bowed a nod.

“I have learned the man’s identity,” he declared. “His name is Ku-Nuan. With brains as twisted as his body, Ku-Nuan has ever dealt in murder. Months ago, Ku-Nuan was in Shanghai. Later, he appeared in San Francisco. One week past, he was seen among my people, here in New York.”

Yat Soon paused; then added:

“Ku-Nuan may have brought word from Shanghai. Word to some one who had schemes of evil. One, however, who is not of my people.”

The Shadow spoke in singsong fashion. Yat Soon corroborated the words.

“You are right, Ying Ko,” acknowledged the arbiter, using the Chinese words that meant “The Shadow.” “Ku-Nuan must live close to the evil master whom he serves. You did wisely, Ying Ko, to let Ku-Nuan escape, that he might show the way to his master. From the moment that you called me last night, my faithful men have been searching for Ku-Nuan. They have not found him.

“If Ku-Nuan served a master who dwells here in Chinatown, he would have returned. If Ku-Nuan served a man of China who dwells elsewhere, I would know of such a master. My search will continue, Ying Ko, but it will bring naught unless Ku-Nuan returns to Chinatown.”