MASTERS OF DEATH
by Maxwell Grant
As originally published in "The Shadow Magazine," May 15, 1940.
Faced again by Shiwan Khan, Oriental master mind, The Shadow challenges
him to a battle to the death!
CHAPTER I
THE SILVER COFFIN
THE Oriental Museum looked like a morgue, inside as well as out. The
customs inspector noted the resemblance as he ascended the darkened steps of
the squatty brick building and entered the gloomy entrance hall.
Great bronze idols glowered from their pedestals; fearful things, that
looked like the creations of a Chinese pipe dream. There were effigies of
mandarins in silken robes; of Japanese shoguns clad in half-armor.
Dummy figures, those. Still, the customs man didn't like them. The Chinese
mandarins did not matter much; their glass eyes were stern, but their colorful
garments made the effigies look harmless. The shoguns, though, were a different
matter. Each figure had a mailed fist, gripping an ornamental tsuba, or handle
of a long, curved sword.
The customs man gave those warriors a suspicious look, as he quickened his
step. When he reached a side passage, he let his face relax. He had reached the
open door of the curator's office; he was beyond the danger zone.
Not that the curator's office was a modern place. Contrarily, its
antiquated furnishings made it something of an exhibit in itself. Perched upon
old-fashioned desks and rickety wooden filing cabinets, were Hindu idols of
various sorts and sizes; from Buddhas with glimmering gems in their foreheads,
to three-headed Siva statues, that set the visitor blinking.
As for the curator, Isaac Newboldt, he looked like something that the room
had hatched. He was a middle-aged man, but he seemed to carry the weight of
centuries upon his stooped shoulders, while his roundish face was as solemn as
those of the surrounding idols.
At least, Newboldt wasn't stuffed. He arose slowly from his chair,
extended his hand in methodical fashion. Surveying the customs man in owlish
fashion, Newboldt nodded and gave a dryish greeting:
"Good evening, Mr. Matthew."
The customs inspector was pleased. He had been here before, but that was
five years ago, when he had held a subordinate position. It was nice to know
that Newboldt remembered him. It struck Matthew, however, that the curator was
the sort who would remember everything.
"The truck ought to be here by this time," announced Matthew, producing a
batch of pacers. "If you'll look over that casket with me, Mr. Newboldt, I
think we'll be able to clear it without much bother."
"A mummy case is not a casket," corrected Newboldt, as he took the papers.
"Such misnomers cause difficulties, Mr. Matthew."
