Chapter Four: Mark of the Phansigar
The new terror spread quickly. Before the day was out, three more deaths had occurred. One was not greatly mourned by some, it was true. The victim was an ambitious young Chinese businessman who had taken the step – unheard -of in a traditional Chinese community – of ruthlessly ousting his father from control of the family business, which he then began to run on American lines. He was found strangled outside his house, clearly ambushed on his way to work.
The other was, in Cardonas' eyes, simply a tragedy. A young Chinese woman who had flown against her parents' wishes to marry a white man. The couple had been found dead in the kitchen of their modest suburban home. Both had been strangled, though it appeared that the husband had put up a fierce defence. He had been still clutching a bloodstained kitchen knife, and there was blood at the scene, though neither victim was cut or stabbed.
The crimes had, Cardona realised, three things in common. The victims had all, in some way, defied traditional Chinese culture. They had all been strangled, and at all three scenes a lizard-headed figurine had been left prominently displayed. Cardona reported all these findings to his superiors and, with rather more confidence, to The Shadow.
Henry Kessler was of the firm belief that a mans' basement was his sanctuary. He might, in due course, invite his son down here, but for now, nobody but himself was allowed in.
Kesslers' ancestors had been craftsmen in wood, and though he himself was an auto mechanic – owning and managing his own repair shop – he still practised woodcarving as a hobby. The small box he was working on was slowly being covered with exquisite images of forest creatures surrounded by trees. He suddenly stopped work and put down the tool he was using.
"I may not be able to see you, but I can hear you." He said evenly. "I have exceptional hearing."
"Among other exceptional perceptions." The reply was in a cold whisper, and as Kessler turned in his chair, a tall, black-clad figure emerged from the shadows.
"Have you come to interfere again?" Kessler asked acidly. "I've done as you asked, though it goes against every tradition, everything my ancestors believed."
"And has anyone suffered from this?" The Shadow asked, cold mockery in his voice. "I am aware of your work. Those you have killed recently were a danger, a threat, they needed to be dealt with. But many of those you killed before were harmless, simple folk seeking only to make a life for themselves. Is failing to kill such people so terrible?"
"They aren't human!" Kessler snapped.
The Shadows' voice became colder. "There are those who would say the same of black people, of Chinese. In the country of your ancestors there are many who say this of Jews. Such arguments can be used to explain the murder of innocents, but not to excuse it."
Kessler dropped his eyes, then said slowly. "I won't deny that since we last spoke, since I limited my activities to only the dangerous ones, I've slept better." He looked up with a wry smile. "It was part of my upbringing – Grimms hunt down and kill wesen, all wesen. But killing harmless eisbieber and timid maushertzen never sat well with me. Odd that it took staring down the barrel of your automatic to wake my conscience.
"But why are you here? When we last met, you said you would let me be if I did as you asked."
"I need your knowledge, and perhaps your skills, Henry Kessler." The Shadow replied. "You have heard of the recent stranglings?"
Kessler nodded. "I assumed it was some kind of political matter in Chinatown." He said.
"You are correct, as far as your knowledge goes." The Shadow noted. "But I am less interested in the source than the agency. Do you recognise this?"
He passed Kessler a photograph Cardona had had taken of one of the lizard-head carvings.
Kessler studied it, and his eyes went cold.
"As a woodcarver, I'd say the technique was excellent." He said evenly. "As a Grimm, however..."
He rose and went over to the heavy curtain that screened off part of the basement. Pushing it aside, he switched on a light far brighter than the one than shone over his workbench. The area held a reading desk, another workbench, and was lined with bookcases, except for a single, large, locked cabinet. Kessler went to one of the bookcases and ran his finger along a shelf with the precision of one who has carefully catalogued his library.
"Here." He said, taking down a large volume. He took it over to the reading desk, sat down and began to flip through the pages. The Shadow, standing behind him, saw that the book was not printed, but a handwritten journal, illustrated with sketches, many of which were quite disturbing.
Kessler stopped at a page illustrated with a sketch of a Komodo Dragon-like creature with a long, muscular tongue.
"This describes the Phansigar," he said, "have you heard the term?"
"It occurs in India as an alternate name for the Thugs." The Shadow replied.
Kessler nodded. "Not surprising, both favour the same method of killing. But the Thugs were merely human bandits who strangled their victims as a quicker and quieter method than stabbing or shooting.
"The phansigar, as you can see, use that powerful tongue instead of the scarf or cummerbund the Thugs employed. There's no doubt that some phansigar were bandits – probably trading on the Thug reputation to mask their activities. However, every three years, phansigar are required to capture a married couple and bury them alive as a sacrifice to Kali. It's usually at that time they leave these figurines. The fact that they're doing it now tells me that they're out to spread terror.
"You implied that these phansigar are working for someone?"
"Yes." The Shadow replied. "But that need not concern you, Henry Kessler. I need only your skills as a Grimm for this one task. The rest you may leave to me."
Kessler went over to the cabinet. Beside it, on the wall, was spread a map of the city and its environs.
"They'll need to be near Chinatown." He opined. "But they need space and solitude to set up their shrine and statues." He considered the map for a moment, then stabbed his finger at a specific spot. "Here." He said.
It had been a simple matter for Margot Lane to track Madame Ingomar to the brownstone she had rented. It quickly became clear, however, that the Eurasian socialite had interests elsewhere. Several nights a week, after returning home in her chauffeur-driven limousine, she would slip out, driving herself in an unremarkable sedan to parts unknown. Margot could hardly follow her in her own distinctive roadster without being noticed. The Shadows' organisation, however, could arrange an alternative.
Harry Vincent sat beside Moe Shrevnetts, a little down the street from Madame Ingomars' brownstone. Not for nothing was Moe known as the "King of the Cabbies", and his legendary driving skills made him capable of shadowing the most alert of drivers without being noticed, even in his yellow cab. Tonight, however, he and Vincent were occupying a very ordinary Ford.
Right on time, Madame Ingomar drove steadily past them. From what Vincent could see, she was wearing a light trenchcoat and a plain headscarf. He smiled grimly; she didn't want to be recognised, but had failed to take the simple precaution of varying her schedule. Moe let her get a reasonable distance ahead before pulling out to follow her. It was late, but not so late that the streets were devoid of traffic. Moe was able to trail his target at a discreet distance while seeming a part of the ordinary comings and goings.
After a while. Vincent asked. "What do you reckon, Shrevvy?"
Moe shrugged. "She's drivin' easy, careful, but she's not makin' any sudden turns or doublin' back. I figure she ain't expectin' to be followed, but she don't want to get noticed, either."
Moe dropped further back as they left the more frequented streets, moving into an area of tree-lined streets, with large houses set back in their own parcels of land.
"I know this place." Moe averred. "Used to be a classy area, but a lot of these places are empty now. Some day soon, it's gonna be bought up and turned into tract houses. Might buy me one, I've lived in apartments all my life, house of my own would be nice.
Ahead of them, Madame Ingomars' brake-lights suddenly flared as she slowed, then turned off the road and paused for a moment. Moe maintained his steady speed, and they passed the spot in time to see the back of the sedan disappear around the bend of a drive behind a pair of impressive wrought-iron gates.
Moe drove on a little way, before pulling onto the side of the road in the shelter of a large tree.
"Y'know," Vincent said reflectively, "some English guy once told me that, back in the old days, when they turned big old houses like these into insane asylums, they'd move the gates and put a curve in the drive. That way, the house was hidden from the road so people passing couldn't see the crazies. He reckoned that's why we say people are going 'round the bend'."
"You reckon she's visiting some crazy aunt or somethin'?" Moe asked.
"Could be." Vincent allowed.
"Well, we got the address." Moe pointed out. "The Boss should be able to find out easy enough."
"Yeah, but it'd be quicker if I took a look around." Vincent suggested.
"We was told to follow her and report back." Moe noted. "Didn't say nothin' about no scoutin' expeditions."
"Aw, come on, Shrevvy!" Vincent began to get out of the car. "No harm taking a look-see!"
The place was old, and neglected. Vincent soon found a spot where the roots of a large tree had undermined the brick wall, leaving a heap of rubble he could scramble over. The belt of trees inside the fence was not wide, but the undergrowth was thick, and difficult to get through. Once on the other side, Vincent noted that the lawns were similarly untended. The house itself was larger than most, and apparently unlit, though the bright moonlight was enough to show that all the shutters were closed. It could be lit up like a Christmas tree in there, and nobody would know. He thought.
Vincent was not entirely reckless – he'd been an agent of The Shadow for too long – and he knew better than to come any closer. He turned back into the trees to make his way out, quietly cursing the undergrowth.
Ironically, it was the undergrowth that saved him. It made a silent approach almost impossible. Vincents' every nerve was stretched, so the snap of a twig, the rustle of a leaf, was enough to alert him. He spun as a dark figure bounded toward him. Moonlight glinted off a wickedly-curved knife. Vincent slipped the charge and seized the knife-arm in a Judo grip that should have incapacitated his opponent. It succeeded in disarming him, sending the knife into the undergrowth. But Vincent was suddenly aware that the arm he was gripping was bare and unnaturally slick.
Showing remarkable resistance to pain, the shadowy assailant wriggled out of his grasp and stepped back into the moonlight. Short, wiry and muscular, naked except for a loincloth and headband, skin glistening as if oiled. The man grinned at Vincent, showing stained teeth, then lifted his head and opened his mouth.
Realising that his attacker was about to call for help, Vincent surged forward, but too late. There was a meaty smack, and the knifeman fall to his knees with a grunt. Behind him loomed the blocky form of Moe Shrevnetts. Moe punched the man in the back of the head again, this time producing a more sodden sound, and the oiled killer collapsed.
"Good job I decided to follow ya." Moe noted with a grin.
"What the heck did you hit him with?" Vincent wanted to know.
Moe extended his fist for inspection. It was the battered fist of a keen amateur boxer, adorned with a formidable and bloodied set of brass knuckles.
"Souvenir from a racketeer who was dumb enough to try and shake me down." Moe declared. "We'd better get this guy out of sight and hope they don't miss him too soon. At least we know this is the place, but the Boss won't be too pleased if you've tipped them off."
The place was a largish area of scrubland, used as a casual dump by the few who knew it existed. Even in a city as bustling as New York, there were places like this. Whether it was the subject of some drawn-out lawsuit between relatives or companies, or simply derelict land, records buried in a dusty vault at City Hall, Kessler neither knew nor cared. What interested him where the fires that burned in the centre of it. Not smouldering scrub fires, or kids' bonfires, but torches and one large central blaze.
Kessler moved his head a little. The spiked collar round his neck was uncomfortable, but necessary. He hefted the long sword he was carrying and told his silent companion. "I can handle them, but I'd appreciate it if you watched my back. We don't know how many there are."
"As you wish." Was the reply.
Kessler moved forward, avoiding the firelight as much as he could. His caution was unnecessary, the two men standing before the large central fire had their attention fixed firmly on it. They were chanting loudly enouhg to be heard over the crackling flames, but Kessler didn't recognise the language, catching only the name "Kali-ma", repeated often. At the centre of the fire lay the body of an older man. Kessler smiled grimly, it appeared that the young man they had murdered had given a good account of himself before the end.
He stepped out into full view now, and called out: "I'd spare some of those prayers for yourselves, if I were you!"
Both phansigar spun, going into woge as they did so. One of them hissed, "Grimm!", and they attacked.
Kessler swung his sword at the nearest, who avoided the strike by inches, and the inevitable happened. The other phansigar had moved behind him and now looped his tongue around Kesslers' neck, impaling it on the spiked collar. The creature gave a high, thin shriek, ripping his injured tongue away. Kessler turned and took off his head with a single cut.
The other was a fast learner, it seemed, because he had snatched up an axe. Not a battleaxe, one used for chopping wood, but deadly enough. Unfortunately for him, he only knew how to use the axe as a woodcutter might, making wild, wide swings that Kessler easily evaded. But as he did so, the phansigar also let out a weird, wailing call. It was the last sound he made as Kesslers' sword found his heart.
Kessler looked around, and saw that this was not over. Apparently summoned by the phansigars' call, five or six men were running toward him. Wiry, brown-skinned men in loincloths, carrying nasty-looking knives. This was going to be hard – though he was a War veteran, Kessler had little stomach for killing humans.
Then The Shadow was beside him. "Go, Henry Kessler, your task is done!" He said. "These men are mine!"
Kessler needed no second bidding. He ran, trying hard not to hear the sounds from behind him. He had been in the Great War, he knew the sound of gunfire, had heard the screams and curses of dying men. It was the sound that rose over all the din that sent a wash of icy fear down his spine. It was the laughter of The Shadow!