Chapter One: The Scented Note

The scream rang through the elegant Manhattan brownstone, sending chills through the staff. It was the scream of a strong man in the last extremity, and even the normally imperturbable English butler turned pale at the sound. Nevertheless, he, the masters' valet and the chauffeur all made their way to the source of the cry.

They found their master in the doorway of his study, sprawled across the threshold as if he had been seeking aid or escape. A powerfully-built man in his fifties, dressed elegantly but casually for a rare evening at home. The rugged face that had graced so many newspaper and magazine pages was contorted in pain or fear, puffy and swollen. The butler could find no pulse.

The doctor was called. He examined the body briefly, then sent for the police. Detective Cardona from Homicide arrived promptly with his men and began a full enquiry. But for now, the only indisputable fact was that Caspar H Letherington Junior was dead.

The Cobalt Club serves an excellent dinner, but any dinner can be improved by company. Police Commissioner Wainwright Barth enjoyed the company of his nephew, Lamont Cranston, more than most. Despite the fact that the boy had done not a hands' turn of work since the War, he nonetheless managed to be informed, and wittily informative, about the important issues of the day. Especially those which the demanding work of a Police Commissioner in the biggest, toughest city in the world did not allow Barth to keep track of. He was privately convinced that, despite his poise of idleness, Lamont was busily involved, behind the scenes, in some of the more admirable projects and causes of the time.

Dessert was long gone, and the two men were lingering over coffee and brandy, when a uniformed officer was ushered over to the table. Barth excused himself to his nephew and engaged in a brief, low-voiced colloquy with the man.

"OK, let Cardona handle it." He finished aloud. "He can brief me tomorrow when the post-mortem is done."

He returned to the table, shaking his head, then seemed to come to a decision.

"See here, Lamont," he began, "I know you're a lot smarter than you'd like folk to think. More than once your ideas have shed light on a baffling case, so I'm going to tell you something we've been keeping out of the public eye. But you have to keep it to yourself, OK?"

"Of course, Uncle Wainwright." Cranston replied. "Anything I can do to help."

"Well, it's like this." Barth told him. "A week ago, we got a report of a suspicious death. A State Department official, David Ackerman, had died suddenly. Perfectly healthy guy, alone in his office, suddenly staggered out screaming and died right there in front of his secretary. When we got him to the Morgue, the coroner noticed his face was swollen and puffy, so we thought some kind of poison. But we couldn't find anything.

"Three days ago, another case. This time it was a professor at NYU, Simeon Meyer. Found dead on his bedroom floor by a maid. Same symptoms, same mystery as to how or why he died.

"Now that officer just told me that another man has died in the same kind of circumstances. This time it's a businessman, Caspar Letherington.

"What do you make of that, Lamont?"

A slight frown creased Cranstons' forehead. "Caspar Letherington Junior?" He asked. Barth nodded.

"I know Letherington." Cranston said. "He and I work together on the boards of a couple of charities. I know a lot of his friends and colleagues. Look, Uncle Wainwright, I'll think about this, but I'll also do some asking around. I'll be discreet, I promise. I'll see if I can dig up a tidbit or two. Even gossip might help."

Barth shrugged. "Right now, I've got nothing else, so I'll take gossip if it helps!" He looked shrewdly at his nephew. "You never said you were doing any charity work, Lamont."

It was Cranstons' turn to shrug. "What can I say, Uncle? It keeps me out of mischief, but I don't like to tell people. Once it gets around I'm doing something useful, I'll stop being a playboy and become a marriage prospect!"

Barth laughed aloud at that. "You are smarter than you look!" He commended. "I promise I won't say a word.

"Now I have to get going. Some of us need to get up before noon!"

Detective Joseph Cardona was alone in the morgue with Letheringtons' body. The mortuary assistant had taken the dead mans' clothes and effects off for examination. Soon, he would return with a colleague to place the body in one of the nearby drawers until tomorrows' post-mortem. The room was dimly-lit, apart from the bright lights above the table where the body lay. Cardona was surprised, but not shocked, when a long shadow suddenly fell across the table from behind him. He began to speak without preamble.

"No wounds, no sign of a struggle. He did scream and try to run out of his study, but whatever it was worked fast. He was dead by the time the staff reached him.

"According to his doctor, he was in perfect health. He ate nothing today that he hadn't eaten before. He had an early dinner, drank two glasses of red wine. There was a glass in his study with whiskey in it, his usual brand, and he'd been smoking a Havana cigar.

"Only two odd things. That mark, for one." He indicated a small mark on the back of the corpses' left hand. It was red in colour, and resembled the imprint of lips. "It's not lipstick, it didn't come off when they washed the body. Might be a birthmark, I'll ask his doctor tomorrow.

"The second thing is the smell. More of a perfume, really. Heavy and exotic. My uncle grows orchids, and some of them smell a bit like it. I noticed it in the other two cases, but didn't know where it came from. But I found something on Letheringtons' desk. An envelope, and a blank sheet of paper. The paper was drenched in that perfume. I cut the paper in two, sent half of it to the lab with the envelope. I have the other half here. I was going to send it to you, thought you might have more luck figuring it out." He held up a manila envelope over his shoulder, and felt it gently taken from him as he went on. "Butler says the envelope was delivered, by messenger, about an hour before Letherington died. He thought it might have been from some dame, Madame Ingomar, that his boss had been meeting up with recently. But who sends a blank note?

"That's all I got for now. I'll send you a copy of the post-mortem report."

The reply was in a keen, cutting whisper. "Good work, detective. You will hear from me."

Then the long shadow was gone.

Somewhere, a bright white light illuminated a wooden desk. A pair of long white hands took up a pen and a sheet of paper. On one of the hands was a ring bearing a single red stone, a rare fire opal. The hands began to write.

David Ackerman – State Department

Simeon Meyer – New York University

Caspar Letherington – Businessman

What do they have in common?

Quick and sudden death – poison? Administered how?

Mark on Letheringtons' hand. Perfumed paper.

Madame Ingomar?

As each word was written, it slowly began to fade. Shortly after the final question mark was inscribed, the sheet was apparently as blank as it had been before a word had been set down. One of the hands then moved to a box on the table and pressed a button. From the grille on the front of the box a matter-of-fact voice said, "Burbank."

The cold, whispering voice began to issue instructions:

"Mann to investigate links between victims David Ackerman, Simeon Meyer and Caspar Letherington. Marsland to look into any possible criminal connections. Lane to investigate Madame Ingomar, Vincent to shadow Lane. Package to be sent to Dr Tam for analysis."

The light went out. In the darkness that followed, there was an eerie, chilling laugh.

The room was dimly-lit, luxuriously furnished in the Oriental manner, and the air was heavy with incense. The woman who knelt on a cushion in the centre of the apartment was extraordinarily beautiful, a happy mix of European and Oriental features that produced a striking, exotic harmony. Eyes downcast, she spoke softly to the figure who occupied a thronelike chair in front of her.

"The third man is dead, Honourable Father. It has been confirmed."

The voice that replied was soft, precise and sibilant, but marred by the occasional guttural tone. "Do the police suspect anything?"

The woman shook her head. "They are at a loss. They can find no clear cause of death, or any obvious link between the three men. Their legal system gives them limited time to find such things before they must conclude their investigation.

"But there is one, a Detective Cardona, who is cleverer than most. He found the paper sent to Letherington, and took it."

A soft laugh came from the throne. "I wish them well in their study of it. What criminal intent can be found in scented paper?"

"None, by the authorities." The woman replied. "But our agent tells us that Cardona has delivered a piece of the sheet to another."

"Another?" The voice grew more sibilant. "The Man of Bronze?"

"No." The woman replied. "Savage is not currently in America, as we know. The mercenaries we sent to Hidalgo are keeping him occupied there." Her voice became hesitant as she continued. "The agent we sent to follow Cardona reported that he spoke to someone at the morgue, and passed them an envelope containing some of the sheet."

"And our agent did not retrieve it?" The male voice had anger in it now.

"He could not." The woman said hurriedly. "He saw no-one! He reports that Cardona spoke to someone, and held up the envelope, which was taken from him. But at no time did he see another man there.

"Honourable Father, is it possible that the rumours are true? The rumours of an avenger darker and more dangerous than Savage?"

The man on the throne leaned forward now, bringing his face into the light. It was a striking face, gaunt, yellow and compelling in its aura of malice. Under a high, domed brow crowned with close-cropped neutral-coloured hair were a pair of remarkable eyes; long, only slightly slanted, and of an intense and brilliant green. The oddest feature about them was a kind of film which seemed most of the time to dull them, but which now slid aside, like the nictitating membrane of a bird or lizard, to reveal them in all their malignant brilliance.

"These are myths!" Hissed Dr Fu Manchu. "I do not know whether they are concocted by the police to cover their own illegal vigilantism, or by criminals to explain away their failures, but myths they must be. The skills they ascribe to this being could not be learned by any Westerner.

"Where is our agent?"

"He is held at the meeting place." Replied Fah Lo Suee. "I thought you might wish to question him yourself."

"Bring him." He ordered.

She made her prostration, then rose and left. Fu Manchu remained on his throne, his eyes dimmed as he brooded. To his daughter, he had appeared confident in his claim that no Westerner could learn the ancient skills needed to hide from sight, but within himself, he felt doubt.

As Lord of the Si Fan, there were few places in the East that were closed to Fu Manchu. The Shaolin temples of Honan, the ninja ryu of Japan, the secret temples of Kali in India, even the retreat of the Old Man of the Mountains, master of the hashishin, all were open to him. But three places remained closed. The City of Shangri-La was one; the sole pass leading to it eternally guarded by the intelligent, incorruptible and immortal Yeti. Another was the Himalayan fastness of Yan the Ancient One, called the Sorceror Supreme. Finally, somewhere in Mongolia, was a hidden temple where a mysterious tulku was said to guard a strange knowledge and power -the power to cloud mens' minds. It was, Fu Manchu supposed, possible that any of these three places might have admitted outsiders from time to time, as students or guests, but a Westerner?

His thoughts were interrupted in a most unseemly manner, as Fah Lo Suee flung open the door of the chamber and dashed in, followed by others.

"Father, I am sorry!" She cried. "But this you must see!"

She gestured urgently, and two dacoits came into the room, carrying a body between them, which they laid on the floor. Fu Manchu stepped down from his throne to examine the dead man. It was the ninja he had set to follow and report on Cardona, the one who had spoken of an invisible man.

The cause of his death was evident, a single shot to the head from a heavy-calibre pistol. But that was not the thing which caused the film to lift from Fu Manchus' eyes. It was the note pinned to the dead mans' chest. A note written on heavy, expensive paper in the clear hand of an educated man. A note of three words:

The Shadow knows.

As Fu Manchu watched, the writing slowly faded away.