'Are you talking?' demanded Shark. 'Or do you want more heat? We can give it -'
His fingers had come up. The Mongols were starting pressure on the handles. As the new strain tormented him, Harry panted:
'I'll - I'll talk!'
SHARK halted the torture. Harry gave a groan. Shark made the Mongols release their pressure. Harry settled loosely on the ironing-boards. The strain ended, he could feel that he was intact. All he had to do was bluff Shark, while Cliff and Hawkeye finished quick preparations for attack.
'I'd tell you about The Shadow - if I could,' falsified Harry. 'I never saw him - not before that night at Silsam's. It was afterward that he came to me, to tell me about Moy Ming. All that he wanted was to learn where Moy Ming was. He didn't say why -'
Above Harry's words came an interruption that made Shark whip away. Revolver shots had sounded, from somewhere outside the building. The reports chilled Harry; for he thought that Cliff and Hawkeye must have run into Shark's reserves. The fusillade became brisker.
Shark yanked out a revolver and sprang toward the rear door. Ready for departure, he pointed to Harry and shouted to Moy Ming:
'Give him the dirk! He's no good to us! Get rid of the body!'
Out came Moy Ming's knife. The lean blade gleamed above Harry's eyes while the Mongols kept the rope taut so that the prisoner's heart lay open to the assassin's thrust. Harry did not flinch; he watched the knife point coolly. After all, he had expected death; and the blade would be quicker than the rack.
A crash riveted Moy Ming; held him, his hand still upraised while his almond eyes darted in a new direction. Husky hands had cracked the little window near the ceiling. The frame was toppling into the room, glass and all. With it came Hawkeye sliding through feet-first.
The little man hit the floor along with the smashing window frame and took a bounding leap that would have done credit to a rabbit.
'Get Vincent!' snapped Shark. 'Finish him, Moy Ming! I'll take care of this mug!'
Shark aimed for Hawkeye but the human rabbit was away, beyond a metal laundry tub. Shark's bullets clanged steel. Moy Ming however had time to follow Shark's order. He poised again and drove the knife blade downward.
An automatic stabbed from the space where the window had been. Harry saw Cliff Marsland fire that shot. Steady of aim, poker-faced in expression, Cliff delivered the needed dose. His bullet took Moy Ming in the heart.
The slug from Cliff's .45 carried an impact that jolted the knife-jabbing Chinaman. Moy Ming lurched, his stab went wide. The blade buried in the edge of the ironing-board, at Harry's shoulder. Moy Ming slumped to the floor, dead.
Hawkeye was answering Shark's fire. The odds favored Hawkeye, for he had cover and Shark was in the open. Shark yanked the bolt of the rear door and made a dive out into the darkness. Luck was with the killer again. He seemed almost to dodge Hawkeye's peppering fire. Shark was off on another getaway.
Before the Mongols could make trouble, Cliff and Hawkeye had them covered. Crashes came from the sliding door that led to the front part of the shop. An ax hewed through. The Mongols saw the blue uniform of a policeman. Together, the pair started for the rear route that Shark had taken.
Neither Cliff nor Hawkeye fired. They heeded a warning call that Harry gave. Hawkeye, bounded to the window, shot his arms up to it so Cliff could tug him through. Shots ripped from the shattered sliding door, stopping the Mongols in their tracks. Then the barrier crashed entirely.
Into the room came Joe Cardona, carrying a smoking revolver. He was followed by the private dick, Jim Tyrune. A few moments later, Michael Chanbury joined them.
RELEASED, Harry gave a satisfactory explanation. He said there had been a message at the hotel, asking him to come here and collect a package of laundry that had been lost in transit. Moy Ming had trapped him; afterwards, Shark had arrived.
To avoid mention of Cliff and Hawkeye, Harry said that Shark had started flight when he heard the police give battle with the front street guards. Moy Ming had objected to Shark's hasty departure; so Shark had shot him down, probably because the Chinaman knew too much.
Harry's story suited Cardona. The ace gave Harry an explanation of his own, concerning the law's invasion.
'You owe your life to Chanbury,' informed Joe. 'After you started for town, he began to worry about your safety. So we came in, the three of us: Chanbury, Tyrune and myself - and we stopped outside the Metrolite. We saw you come out and take a cab. We followed.'
'But we lost you,' put in Tyrune. 'We had to get out and look around, with some patrolmen. That's how we ran into Shark's outfit.'
Like Cardona, Tyrune gave credit to Chanbury. Harry thanked the grizzled art collector, and shook hands warmly. Chanbury's blunt features showed embarrassment, although his keen eyes flashed a pleased twinkle.
'It was nothing,' assured Chanbury. 'I'd been doing some worrying on my own; that's how I happened to think of you, Vincent. Maybe you can do as much for me some time, Vincent.'
BACK at the hotel, Harry reviewed the night's adventure. He knew that Shark would avoid another thrust. The killer was satisfied that Harry knew little; and with Moy Ming dead, there was nothing that Harry could learn for The Shadow.
Events would remain latent until after The Shadow's return. Tonight, however, Harry had learned one fact. Michael Chanbury was a man who could show both keenness and action. Even though Cliff and Hawkeye were Harry's actual rescuers, Chanbury deserved the credit given him.
Harry was positive that Chanbury was one person who would later prove useful to The Shadow.
CHAPTER XII. THE THIRD WEEK
A FORTNIGHT had passed and neither the law nor The Shadow's agents had gained a trail to Shark Meglo's present hide-out. The killer was back in his home field. Keeping out of sight was still Shark's best specialty.
Harry Vincent had been an occasional caller at Chanbury's Long Island home; and so had Clyde Burke.
The reporter had been introduced there by Cardona. Both Joe Cardona and Jim Tyrune had visited the wealthy art collector, in hopes that he might have some good ideas. Chanbury's hunch regarding Harry's predicament had impressed the sleuths.
Chanbury, however, had confessed himself at a complete loss. He was not a crime investigator. He felt that he had been given too much credit for one chance idea.
That statement pleased another visitor who heard it. Madden Henshew had found occasion to visit Michael Chanbury. One afternoon, Chanbury had shown Henshew and Harry all through the big mansion, with its hall-like picture galleries.
'Paintings,' Chanbury had said to Henshew, 'interest me far more than jewels. It is too bad, Henshew, that you are not an art dealer. I might become your best customer.'
There was one man who chafed under the long lull that had followed the robbery at Silsam's. That man was Police Commissioner Weston.
On this particular afternoon, two weeks after Harry's rescue, Weston was seated in his big office, nervously strumming the desk. Weston's mind was badly disturbed. He was therefore somewhat pleased when Clyde Burke sauntered in to pay a passing call.
'Hello, Burke!' greeted Weston. Then, hopefully: 'Any news?'
'None about Shark Meglo.'
'Too bad,' declared Weston ruefully. 'Gad, Burke, I wish you could dig up facts regarding those robberies! I had hopes that you could do so after the keen manner in which you solved the Cranston riddle.'
Still strumming the desk, Weston stared from his window, scanning the broad reaches of Manhattan. In a weary tone, he commented:
'Shark Meglo is somewhere in this city. So is another man, a master-criminal. We are hunting blindly; and all the time, new crime is drawing closer.'
'Maybe not,' said Clyde. 'You published a full description of the stolen gems. That ought to crimp another sale.'
'I hope so, Burke,' returned the commissioner. 'No more sales, no more crimes. That seems logical.
