Chenma, by then, had left the window. Her task was done.

Word of crime was on its way to the mighty fighter who awaited it: The Shadow!

CHAPTER XI. THE WRONG CHOICE.

THE lights were on in Royce's Greenwich Village studio. Beneath the frosted skylight, Burton Royce was smiling wisely as he opened a small satchel and spread its contents on a table.

Margo Lane tamped her cigarette into an ash tray and leaned forward from her easy-chair, to view the splendor on display.

In size, at least, Royce's collection of gems was much larger than Dayland's, but it included many heavy items that were long on metal, short on jewels. Rings, bracelets, anklets, clattered heavily as Royce brought them from the satchel.

"The more of these, the better," declared Royce. "I mean it as a compliment, Miss Lane, when I say that you are to be a setting for these gems. After all, a Javanese princess would be apt to adorn herself with all the ornaments that she could acquire. Don't you agree?"

Margo glanced about the studio, searching among paintings, some half finished, some complete. Turning to Royce, she replied: "I can tell better after I have seen my costume. So far, you haven't even described it, Mr. Royce."

"Of course!" exclaimed Royce. "The Javanese costume! Let me see; where did I put the key to the costume closet."

He poked about the studio, while Margo was fingering the gems and admiring their glitter. Royce finally found the key in a pocket of an old smock that he hadn't worn for months. The closet was in a corner of the studio. Unlocking it, Royce brought out costumes, one by one, dusting them as he hung them over chairs.

"Here it is," he finally said. "An authentic Javanese costume. I brought it back from the Orient with me."

Margo surveyed the garb that a Javanese princess should wear. It couldn't be termed elaborate, but considering the scarcity of costumes in Royce's recent paintings, Margo regarded it as ultraconservative.

The Javanese outfit consisted of diaphanous pantaloons, an abbreviated tunic, and slippers thatresembled sandals.

A dressing room adjoined the studio. Entering it, Margo locked the door, then softly opened the window.

She saw a light below and gave a tap on the sill. The light went off, and Margo heard a window slide upward. She extinguished her light, too, and whispered down to Harry Vincent.

"The gems are here," she told him. "They don't match Dayland's, but they look sensational enough."

"I saw Royce bring in the satchel," returned Harry. "I was going to phone you, but thought I'd wait."

"No further word?"

"None at all. I'll let you know if there is."

Margo left the window open and the light off. She preferred darkness, since it offered quicker communication with friends. This business of being bait for a tribe of Chinese bandits gave her the shivers. She began to wish she hadn't gone through with it, even to help Lamont.

Her shivers continued after she had discarded her own clothes and found her way into the costume that Royce had given her. Even a well-dressed Javanese princess wasn't equipped to meet the breezes that wandered into a fourth-floor New York window.

But when she stepped through the door, into the warmer studio, Margo managed to repress her shudders before Royce noticed them. He was busy mixing paints, and his back was turned.

ROYCE heard Margo reach the table where the jewels were. He turned, came over to help choose adornments that would elaborate the simple costume. As they proceeded, it became apparent that Royce intended to load Margo with all the jewelry she could carry.

Indeed, both girl and costume made a fitting background for a galaxy of gems. The short tunic was sleeveless, and after Margo's hands were embellished with rings on every finger, her arms looked very bare. Royce corrected that by supplying three heavy bangles for each arm; large ones, that slid above Margo's elbows. Next came as many smaller bracelets, which fitted Margo's wrists.

While Margo was putting on a pair of large cameo earrings, Royce girded her with an elaborately jeweled belt, wide enough to cover the gap in her costume. Margo sat down and extended each foot, while Royce fitted her with anklets, much heavier and larger than the arm bangles.

Studying herself in a full-length mirror, Margo was quite pleased with the result. Instead of clashing, the garish ornaments produced a ma.s.s effect that a skilled painter like Royce could develop to perfection.

Still, when Margo turned around, Royce shook his head. The jewels weren't too many; they were not enough.

"You represent barbaric splendor," declared Royce, "but there must be something more. Some trinket that will strike a delicate touch. I have the very thing we need."

From the glitter on the table, Royce chose a ruby necklace, but it wasn't the ornament in question. Going to a table, he brought out a small box, and from it dumped some pieces of jade. He showed the largest carving to Margo and she was intrigued by its appearance.

The jade was tooth-shaped, and had two tiny p.r.o.ngs extending from the corners above its points. By those p.r.o.ngs, Royce attached it to the ruby necklace, which he slipped over Margo's head. As the rubies settled around the girl's neck, the jade carving slid down from her throat, stopping just above the V-shaped border of her tunic. Contrasted with the deep olive hue of the costume, the apple-green jade gave the final effect that Royce desired, though he did not discount the crimson of the ruby necklace. While Margo was mirroring herself and approving the result, Royce looked across her shoulder and nodded.

"Red and green," he declared. "A splendid contrast, in this particular arrangement. And now, Miss Lane"

- he gave a deep chuckle - "you are wearing the real prize of my collection."

Fingering the ruby necklace as she turned, Margo gave an understanding nod as she said: "These rubies are large enough to be worth a fortune in themselves -"

"I do not mean the rubies," interrupted Royce, still chuckling. "I refer to the jade pendant."

"Why -" Margo paused, somewhat puzzled. "Why, the other night, you said that jade had little value.

"Little value in itself," agreed Royce, "but far more than the rest of the junk jewelry you are wearing.

Don't think that I am laughing at you, Miss Lane." Royce's tone was becoming convulsive. "We shall enjoy the final laugh together, when the crowd arrives for the studio party.

"You can stay in costume, and I shall keep on painting, while we watch their faces. When they ask how much these gems are worth, I shall say, conservatively, thirty thousand. I won't add, of course, that I mean cents, not dollars!"

MARGO began to laugh, too. Royce thought she was picturing the coming envy of his former models; but Margo wasn't thinking in terms of blondes. She remembered that Royce had told her he had invited Cranston to the party. It would be delightful to watch Lamont eye the imitation gems, believing them real trophies that would demand his full protection.

Then, considering Cranston in terms of The Shadow, with the serious matters that were at stake, Margo was ready to revoke her decision, when she heard Royce say: "Queer people, the Chinese. What one hears, all learn. I talked too much in Chinatown, quite purposely.

I wanted the Chinese to show their hand, but they were far too wise. They must have learned, through sources of their own, that my wonderful gem collection was all junk; that I never showed it to experts like Dayland or Walstead, except when I borrowed occasional items elsewhere.

"After all" - Royce gave a shrug - "I had to keep up a front among friends who regard a man who spends all his money as a fool."

"But you told Walstead that you often traded gems with Dayland!"

"Why not?" chuckled Royce. "Dayland was no longer alive to deny it."

"Then you sold Dayland paintings for actual cash?"

"Yes, and plenty of it. I bluffed him into thinking that I had all the money I needed, and thereby always received the full price I wanted.

"Well" - Royce snapped his fingers - "Herb is gone, and Lou is my best prospective customer, so I am bluffing him, in his turn."

Margo felt that Royce's att.i.tude was heartless, but she did not say so. After all, he knew his friends - if they could be so termed - and Royce was generous, at least, while they were graspers.

It didn't fully apply to Dayland, who had begun to throw away money as he approached a state of senileboredom; but Walstead had remained a complete tightwad. Margo was just about to ask Royce how he rated Alexander Marne, when the telephone bell rang, The call was for Margo. Royce thought that Cranston was on the wire, but it proved to be Harry, phoning from the studio below. He told her that he had just received word from The Shadow; that crime was scheduled at Walstead's, instead of Royce's. The agents were leaving for a trip uptown to Walstead's, to block off any Chinese who might escape the police.

"I understand," returned Margo. "Everything is all right here. I was worried over nothing. I was mistaken about the things I mentioned."

Subtly, Margo was telling Harry that there weren't any jewels in the studio. She couldn't go into the fake angle; she simply let Harry conclude that Royce had brought something other than jewels in his satchel, which amounted to the same thing.

Harry had been about to say that he would leave Hawkeye on watch outside the building, but Margo's a.s.surance told him that no emergency measure would be needed, though The Shadow had ordered such, if necessary.

Royce heard Margo's comments, and smiled. He misinterpreted her words, which was exactly what Margo wanted him to do. Knowing that Margo suspected that he might switch from the princess theme, with its burdening jewels and costumes, Royce supposed that she had expressed her doubts to Cranston, who had accordingly called to make sure that Royce had kept his original idea.

It didn't occur to Royce that Cranston had personally allayed Margo's doubts, beforehand. Correctly, Cranston had judged that Royce's new customer, Walstead, lacked Dayland's interest in art, and would be interested only in paintings that emphasized his one love, jewels.

POSING Margo upon a small platform, Royce told her to balance slightly to the right and let her arms relax downward, with the weight of the heavy bangles carrying them. At best, the pose was difficult, and Royce added that Margo could rest as often as she chose. Returning to his easel, he began a preliminary sketch.

"This will all be wasted on Walstead," said Royce moodily. "I could heap those jewels on the table, paint them like a basket of fruit, and still please Walstead. But I couldn't put my interest into it. When I've finished this portrait, those fake gems will look as real to Walstead as any he ever saw."

Margo was looking across the room, to a table where her handbag lay. She'd just remembered that it contained the revolver that Cranston had told her to bring. She should have thought of the gun earlier, though she doubted that she could have tucked it in the folds of her rather filmy costume without Royce noticing it. An easier plan would be simply to have the bag handy; but that no longer mattered.

Royce's studio was the wrong place for crime. Shang Chou knew it, Margo had learned it, and the fact had reached The Shadow. He was on his way from Chinatown to the right place: Walstead's apartment.

Should Chinese desperadoes attack the police stationed there, The Shadow and his agents would mop up the raiders.

This trip to Royce's studio was no longer an adventure for Margo Lane; instead, it was beginning to prove a bore. From the way the bracelets were beginning to tire her arms, she wished she'd never heard of Java or its princesses. Of all the ways that Margo might have helped The Shadow in his campaign against crime, this was the wrong choice.

Gazing across the studio, Margo saw its door move open and hoped that it signified the arrival of a partyguest. That, at least, would relieve the monotony. A figure came into sight, beckoning to another. Then, with a quick move, the figure jerked about as another bobbed in beside it.

Both were men who wore loose jackets, the kind that Margo had seen before, with yellow faces above them. These intruders had such faces, and their hands were yellow, too. Yellow hands with glittering revolvers.

Shang Chou's raiders!

Yes, Margo Lane had made the wrong choice in coming to Royce's studio. So had these Chinese, for they had chosen a place where only worthless gems abounded. But those wrong choices nullified each other. Futile though both might prove, Margo was experiencing her adventure; the Chinese were satisfying their urge for crime.

Someone else had made the choice that was really wrong: The Shadow, when he had accepted Chenma's word that crime would strike tonight at another place than this!

CHAPTER XII. FORCED MURDER.

BEFORE Margo could gasp a warning to Royce, he heard the clatter at the door and turned. By then, there were more than two Chinese. There were four, spreading in fan-wise, with their leveled guns.

Margo saw Royce's hand dip to his smock pocket, then twist away and come upward into sight.

He was armed, but he couldn't hope to beat four marksmen to the shot, even though they were the sort who made a fetish of wasting their first trigger tug on an empty cartridge chamber. At least, Royce accomplished something; by deftly diverting his hand, he managed to cover the fact that he had his own gun in his pocket.

Margo's hands were coming up, too. They didn't lift automatically, like Royce's. Her arms, already tired by the weight of the bangles, almost refused to budge Margo finally brought her hands shoulder high and held them there. Hopelessly, she thought of her own gun, tucked away in the handbag so far from reach.

More than she even realized, Margo was the center of the show. Royce had focused lights upon the platform, to make the jewels glitter to the full. The rest of the studio was comparatively dim, and the Chinese, acting as they had at Dayland's, were keeping to the darkness. Their faces, as Margo saw them, were scarcely more than yellow blurs.

While one held Royce covered, another stole up behind him and prodded the artist with a gun. Royce stepped back as though the weapon drew him, and while Margo was viewing the odd effect, she was treated to it, too.

A Chinese slid right in back of her and nudged her with his revolver. But Margo's back steps were stopped by a forward shove. They wanted her off the platform and over by the table.

Other Chinese were peering in from the doorway, grinning at what they saw. Margo realized that they were guarding the stairway to make sure they wouldn't be disturbed. One thing, however, was evident: from the way the Chinese eyed the gems that Margo wore, they seemed to believe that the jewels were real. The quicker Margo let them take the imitations, the sooner this ordeal would be over, and the less chance that they would discover the falsity of the gems.

So Margo extended her hands, inviting the Chinese to come and get the rings she wore. Two men bounded forward and grabbed at them. Margo was tempted to double her fists and let them have therings, bra.s.s-knuckle fashion, for their heads were bowed and their chins conveniently at hand. But that would have settled only two of them, even if Margo's punches had scored.

Flinging the rings into the open satchel, the two Chinese clutched Margo's shoulders and swept their hands right down her arms, carrying bangles and bracelets in a metallic clutter. They were banging those into the satchel, too, when Margo realized that a gun was no longer pressing her. But it was only because the man behind her was unhooking the jeweled belt.

He flung that trophy to the others, and the gun came back more emphatic than ever, for it was pressing Margo instead of the belt, and its muzzle chilled like ice.

Remembering the cameo earrings, Margo clutched them, hoping to loosen them and hand them over, rather than have them wrenched away. The Chinese let her have her way. They gabbled at the man with the gun, and he stepped aside. Then, just as Margo was extending the earrings, the two Chinese shoved her into the easy-chair that was behind her.

As Margo sprawled, she looked up and saw the leering Chinaman who held the gun. His head blocked off the light, and his face, darkened and contorted, had the glare of a demon's.

He plucked the earrings from Margo's open hands, while his companions hauled the bangles from her ankles, flinging away the slippers that came with them. The two turned to toss the anklets in the satchel, and the gunner reached around to give them the earrings. He was watching Margo, but his eyes had lowered from her face.

His gaze was on the tooth-shaped pendant that hung from the imitation necklace. The jade was real; the rubies imitation; and though, so far, these Chinese had treated all the jewelry as real, this man, for some reason, preferred the pendant. He jabbed his hand for it; then, with a slit-eyed glance at Margo's face, he let his fingers creep up and take the necklace, instead.

He was drawing Margo up from the chair, as his hand moved around her neck to find the clasp of the necklace. But he had given away his preference for the jade pendant, and he knew that Margo had guessed it.

As she reached her feet, Margo understood those glinting eyes still more.

They meant murder!

Dayland's death, those others, had not been done in heat of crime. They were premeditated murders, to seal the lips of men who might have mentioned some certain item lost along with other gems. By the same token, Royce was already marked to die, and Margo, by recognizing something that she shouldn't have, would share the same fate, if nothing intervened.

Across the Chinaman's shoulder, Margo saw two others beside the table; not far away, a fourth was peering from behind Royce, more interested in Margo than in his own prisoner. A glance toward the door showed Margo that the guarding Chinese were all outside.

Margo saw her chance and took it. Swaying slightly beside the chair, she took a step to catch herself and purposely stubbed her toe against the chair leg. Her cry was very genuine, sufficient to make her sudden wrench appear the same. It was a quick wrench, away from the Chinaman's hand, and it did what Margo wanted.

As the Chinaman clutched the necklace, it broke, not at the snap but somewhere along the string. Red beads flew like hailstones, glittering as beautifully as real rubies would have. The jade pendant fell, too,and the Chinaman with the gun went after it, while the others dropped to their knees to scoop up the fake rubies. Even the man who was guarding Royce took a few steps forward.

Shrieking for Royce to use his gun, Margo sprang for the other table and grabbed her handbag. She was dashing elsewhere, when she yanked the bag open and peeled it from the revolver. By then, guns were beginning to chatter, and Margo, skidding when a scatter rug went out from under her, heard a bullet ping the wall above her.

Royce was in one corner, flinging easels as he fired; Margo was in another, spilled so suddenly that she had lost her gun. Chinese were lunging for both of them, snarling threats of instant death, when the greater challenge came.

Double was that mighty challenge, with its shuddering mockery and the blast of two big automatics.

Never had The Shadow's laugh, nor his gunfire, been a more welcome duet to the ears of Margo Lane.

New bullets were bashing the walls, as close to the Chinese gunners as The Shadow could fire without clipping Royce or Margo.

Scattering wildly, the Chinese flung themselves about to focus all guns on The Shadow. Others were springing in from the hallway door. They had The Shadow spotted; he had come from the little dressing room, having reached it by way of Harry's studio. Margo, by leaving the window open, had aided his timely arrival.