precinct agent reports a possible murder at the Museum of Art and Antiquity,” a squinting Burbank answered him through the rig’s speaker. “An elaborate coffin arrived from China during the night, and a museum guard is dead—made to look as if by his own hand. No suspects at present, but an investigation is in progress.”
Cranston steepled his long fingers. “Murder,” he mused.
“Agent suggests a separate inquiry may be warranted.”
“Understood,” Cranston said, keying the microphone’s kill switch and returning some of the toggles to their off positions. He was just shrugging out of his overcoat when he perceived someone behind him whirl on the stairway.
Standing in the middle of the bottom flight was an Asian man, swathed in antique green silk patterned with dragons, his short cape embellished by a fringe of black goat fur.
“Somehow I pictured you as taller,” the intruder said, affably enough. Compactly built, he had piercing eyes, shoulder-length hair, a thick growth of beard, and a crescent-shaped scar low on his right cheek.
“Who are you?” Cranston said, betraying little more than a hint of surprise.
“How unsociable of me. Shiwan Khan,” he said, with a slight bow. “Most recent descendant of the Kha Khans, Chingiz and Qubilai. You are, naturally, deeply honored.”
Shiwan Khan continued down the stairs and stepped into the sanctum’s secondary room. Content for the moment to allow Khan to reveal his purpose in infiltrating The Shadow’s headquarters—no mean feat in itself—Cranston followed, laying his coat, hat, and gloves on a chaise longue. He had on a gray-checked Norfolk jacket with an action back, and a striped burgundy-and-white necktie.
“Under no circumstances feel obligated to introduce yourself,” Khan went on. “I already know who you are.” His eyes roamed over Cranston, and he made a gesture of dismissal. “Not this temporary version of yourself. I mean that I know who you really are—Ying Ko.” He bowed his head, almost reverently. “I am a great admirer of yours.”
The couch and an armchair in matching black leather sat on either side of a small fireplace, which was itself flanked by bookcases. On the wall above the mantel hung a impressionistic painting of a skyscraper. Near the couch was a mahogany sideboard, crowned with a Remington bust of George Armstrong Custer.
Cranston had adopted a casual pose by the chaise longue, one hand thrust into the pocket of his high-waisted trousers. The look he aimed back at Khan was innocuous. “I’m afraid somebody sold you a bill of goods, friend.”
“Please,” Khan said peevishly. “It is no more difficult for me to infiltrate your mind than it was this room.” He motioned to the chair. “May I?”
Cranston gestured courteously.
“You disappoint me, Ying Ko. I would have thought you’d enjoy meeting a kindred soul—someone else possessed of the ability to cloud the minds of inferiors.”
Shiwan Khan employed the Tibetan phrase Marpa Tulku had used. “You were a student of the tulku ,” Cranston said after a moment, dropping all pretense.
“Tulku? What an honor you pay him. But yes, I was. Selected as you were—to be redeemed from a nefarious past. He spoke of you constantly, right to the last. But I’m afraid he wasn’t able to turn me quite as easily as he did you.” Khan paused. “You wouldn’t happen to have any American bourbon, would you? I’ve developed a bit of a taste for it, you see.” His right hand went to the sash of his silk tunic. “I’d be happy to pay.”
Cranston went to the sideboard and took out two glasses and a bottle. “If I recall, your ancestors had a fondness for drink, among other things.” He glanced over his shoulder at Khan before he poured the bourbon. “Do you want to talk about your visit to the Museum of Art and Antiquity last night?” He carried the glasses across the room, handing one to Khan, who stood to accept it.
“Wonderful collection of
Cranston steepled his long fingers. “Murder,” he mused.
“Agent suggests a separate inquiry may be warranted.”
“Understood,” Cranston said, keying the microphone’s kill switch and returning some of the toggles to their off positions. He was just shrugging out of his overcoat when he perceived someone behind him whirl on the stairway.
Standing in the middle of the bottom flight was an Asian man, swathed in antique green silk patterned with dragons, his short cape embellished by a fringe of black goat fur.
“Somehow I pictured you as taller,” the intruder said, affably enough. Compactly built, he had piercing eyes, shoulder-length hair, a thick growth of beard, and a crescent-shaped scar low on his right cheek.
“Who are you?” Cranston said, betraying little more than a hint of surprise.
“How unsociable of me. Shiwan Khan,” he said, with a slight bow. “Most recent descendant of the Kha Khans, Chingiz and Qubilai. You are, naturally, deeply honored.”
Shiwan Khan continued down the stairs and stepped into the sanctum’s secondary room. Content for the moment to allow Khan to reveal his purpose in infiltrating The Shadow’s headquarters—no mean feat in itself—Cranston followed, laying his coat, hat, and gloves on a chaise longue. He had on a gray-checked Norfolk jacket with an action back, and a striped burgundy-and-white necktie.
“Under no circumstances feel obligated to introduce yourself,” Khan went on. “I already know who you are.” His eyes roamed over Cranston, and he made a gesture of dismissal. “Not this temporary version of yourself. I mean that I know who you really are—Ying Ko.” He bowed his head, almost reverently. “I am a great admirer of yours.”
The couch and an armchair in matching black leather sat on either side of a small fireplace, which was itself flanked by bookcases. On the wall above the mantel hung a impressionistic painting of a skyscraper. Near the couch was a mahogany sideboard, crowned with a Remington bust of George Armstrong Custer.
Cranston had adopted a casual pose by the chaise longue, one hand thrust into the pocket of his high-waisted trousers. The look he aimed back at Khan was innocuous. “I’m afraid somebody sold you a bill of goods, friend.”
“Please,” Khan said peevishly. “It is no more difficult for me to infiltrate your mind than it was this room.” He motioned to the chair. “May I?”
Cranston gestured courteously.
“You disappoint me, Ying Ko. I would have thought you’d enjoy meeting a kindred soul—someone else possessed of the ability to cloud the minds of inferiors.”
Shiwan Khan employed the Tibetan phrase Marpa Tulku had used. “You were a student of the tulku ,” Cranston said after a moment, dropping all pretense.
“Tulku? What an honor you pay him. But yes, I was. Selected as you were—to be redeemed from a nefarious past. He spoke of you constantly, right to the last. But I’m afraid he wasn’t able to turn me quite as easily as he did you.” Khan paused. “You wouldn’t happen to have any American bourbon, would you? I’ve developed a bit of a taste for it, you see.” His right hand went to the sash of his silk tunic. “I’d be happy to pay.”
Cranston went to the sideboard and took out two glasses and a bottle. “If I recall, your ancestors had a fondness for drink, among other things.” He glanced over his shoulder at Khan before he poured the bourbon. “Do you want to talk about your visit to the Museum of Art and Antiquity last night?” He carried the glasses across the room, handing one to Khan, who stood to accept it.
“Wonderful collection of
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