The Living Shadow s-1

by Maxwell Grant

  “You’re right,” admitted Vincent. “I’ll remember them.”

  “You will excuse me for a while,” requested Fellows. “Make yourself at home, while I attend to a few business matters.”

  Vincent stared from the window and watched the crowds on the streets below, while Fellows used the telephone to discuss insurance with various clients.

  This whole experience was a puzzle to Vincent, and he wondered what was next in store for him. He still felt that the Chinese disk which lay on Fellows’ desk was a most important item in whatever was developing.

  The minutes went by, and Vincent waited patiently. He was beginning to realize that the ability to be patient was one of the most important duties expected of him.

  He glanced at his watch: it registered half past eleven, and he wondered if the reply to Fellows’ message would come as soon as the chubby insurance broker expected it.

  The stenographer had returned at least a half an hour before; and the door to the outer room was open.

  A messenger boy entered the outer office, bearing an envelope. The stenographer signed for it and brought it in to Fellows’ desk. The insurance man was busy at the phone, and paid no attention to the envelope for five minutes. Then he rose leisurely and closed the door to the outer office.

  He picked up the envelope, unfolded a letter, and stood by the window reading, while Vincent watched him curiously. The chubby man had donned his spectacles, but when he had finished his perusal of the letter, he removed his glasses and looked at Vincent.

  “I have an explanation for you,” he said. “I am instructed to inform you regarding certain matters which have puzzled you. First, we will discuss the Chinese disk, and the man named Scanlon.

  “Scanlon came from San Francisco. He was to take the disk to a Chinese named Wang Foo, today, at three o’clock. You are to go in Scanlon’s place.

  “You will say nothing to Wang Foo. Simply show him the disk, and he will give you a sealed package. You will bring that package here to me.

  “Two men besides Scanlon knew the purpose of that disk. One of them was Steve Cronin. He has left New York. The other, a gangster called Croaker, was killed last night. Somehow, his associates learned that he had double-crossed them. They murdered him, and he had no opportunity to mention the matter of the Chinese disk, even if he had intended to do so.

  “In order that your journey may be safe, you will enter a taxicab at the corner of Forty-fifth Street and Broadway at exactly two o’clock this afternoon. It will be a green cab, and you will recognize it by the chauffeur, who will be wearing a cap with a green band.

  “The cab will carry you to a Chinese tea shop. Enter and pass through to the rear. Ask to see Wang Foo. Upon leaving the tea shop with the package, you will find the same cab awaiting you. It will bring you back to the corner of Forty-fifth Street and Broadway. From there, you must come here immediately.”

  “What instructions shall I give the cab driver?” questioned Vincent.

  “Any that you please,” replied Fellows. “He will simply follow the orders that he has already received.”

  The insurance broker picked up the disk and gave it to Vincent, who replaced it in his vest pocket. Fellows opened the door, conducted Vincent through the outer office.

  “Sorry I can’t have lunch with you, Vincent,” said the insurance broker. “I’ll see you later. Good-by, old chap.”

  In his hand, Fellows still held the mysterious letter; but up to this moment, Vincent had had no opportunity to see its written side. Now, as the door was closing, something happened that caused Vincent to stand in the hallway, gaping in astonishment.

  Fellows had carelessly turned his hand so that the written side of the letter was directly toward Vincent’s eyes. And as the young man had unconsciously sought to scrutinize the writing, he had been amazed to observe that the letter was a blank sheet of paper!

  CHAPTER VIII

  THE TEA SHOP OF WANG FOO

  The taxicab was rolling through the side streets of Manhattan. Harry Vincent wondered where it was carrying him. For half an hour the driver had been following a circling, twisting course that seemed to lead nowhere.

  Vincent had hailed the cab at the stroke of two o’clock. He had recognized the green band on the driver’s hat. He had given instructions to be taken to the Grand Central Station, and the cab driver had not followed his orders. That was proof enough that Vincent was in the right cab.

  He had looked for the familiar card that is in every New York cab, showing the driver’s picture and his name. There was no such card in this cab. It had evidently been removed.

  He had found himself wondering who the driver might be. Another agent of The Shadow? Perhaps it was The Shadow himself! The man was wearing a coat with a large collar, and the top of the coat had been turned up so that only the tip of his nose was in view.

  Whoever the man might be, he was familiar with the city, for the cab had made so many turns and twists that Vincent had given up wondering where he might be.

  He knew, though, that the driver was not trying to confuse him; for any street-corner sign might give the correct location. It was obvious that the man at the wheel was making sure that no car was following the cab.

  The Chinese disk was still safely imbedded in Vincent’s pocket. He felt the tiny talisman and speculated upon its importance. By merely showing this he was to receive a package - a package which he must bring back to Fellows, the insurance broker.

  That would be easy. He could not see any danger impending. Yet the mysterious course of the cab indicated that the mission might not be a safe one.

  Glancing at his watch, Vincent noted that it was nearly three o’clock. That was the hour of his appointment with Wang Foo - the appointment he was to keep in place of the murdered Scanlon. Evidently the dead shoe salesman was not known to the Chinese tea merchant. The disk alone would be accepted as his badge of identity.

  Finally the cab pulled up in front of a squalid building on the edge of Chinatown. The driver opened the door, and presented Vincent with a ticket. He paid the bill; this was evidently intended as a natural procedure to dismiss the suspicions of any watchers on the street.

  The cab pulled away before Vincent had an opportunity to note the driver’s face, which was still hidden by his coat collar.

  The building was three stories high. There were plate-glass windows in the front; and they were piled with tea boxes in disorderly arrangement. The windows were covered with Chinese characters, but over the door appeared in English letters the name “Wang Foo.”

  Vincent entered and found himself in a combination sales-and-storage room. There was a counter at the right, and piles of boxes at the left. The room was extremely narrow, but very long. It was dirty and uninviting, dimly lit by two gas jets hung from the ceiling.

  A Chinese behind the counter eyed Vincent curiously, but did not speak.

  Vincent walked nonchalantly through the room. There was a solid wall at the back, but he paid no attention to that fact until he had arrived at the end of the room. Then he discovered a door, to the right, partly obscured by piles of tea boxes. He tried the door, but found it locked.

  The Chinaman behind the counter had silently followed him through the room. Vincent was slightly startled as the Celestial plucked his sleeve and spoke in pidgin-English.

  “Who you wanee see?”

  “Wang Foo.”

  “Not home.”

  “Oh, but he is.”

  The Chinaman shook his head.

  Vincent became commanding.

  “You tell Wang Foo I want to see him.”

  “Not home,” replied the Chinaman. “I tellee you not home.”

  “I have come a long way from California,” said Vincent meaningfully.

  The Chinaman quickly nodded at Vincent’s last words.

  “Me lookee. Me see. Maybe Wang Foo comee home.”

  “All right,” declared Vincent impatiently. “Make it snappy.”

  The Cel
estial tapped on the upper panel of the door. It opened inward. Vincent was startled for a moment; then he saw that it was a simple sort of trap opening that he had not noticed in the darkness.

  The Chinaman spoke in his native tongue.

  A mumbled reply came from within the door. The Chinaman answered, and there was a conversation of three or four minutes. The trap closed; the Chinaman stepped away, and the door opened to admit Vincent.

  He stepped into darkness.

  He found himself at the foot of a flight of stairs. A large, heavily built Chinaman was before him, scarcely visible in the darkness. The Mongol spoke, in English.

  “Come.”

  Vincent went up the steps, which were almost pitch-dark. The guide was a few feet ahead, his light-colored robe enabling the American to follow. At the top of the steps there was a turn, and Vincent emerged with the Chinaman into an entryway that was lighted by a single, low-turned gas jet. A massive door of teakwood blocked the way.

  The Chinese guide knocked four times.

  The door opened and the big Chinaman urged Vincent to enter. The door closed behind him.

  After all the squalor he had seen downstairs, Vincent was amazed by the room in which he now stood. It was a square room, fairly large, and exquisitely furnished. The wall was draped with huge tapestries, covered with golden dragons embroidered on black backgrounds.

  The room was dimly lighted, but evidently electricity was used, the lamps being masked behind silken shades. Furniture of all descriptions was about the room; beautiful, thick Chinese rugs covered the floor.

  The smell of incense came to Vincent, and he noted a burner, shaped in the form of a tiny temple, that stood on a taboret in one corner.

  At the far side of the room was a sort of desk, with huge thick legs that ended at the bottom in dragon claws. Behind this odd piece of furniture sat an ancient Chinaman. He wore a crimson tunic that buttoned tight about his neck, which bore a golden dragon upon its front. The Chinaman wore thick, heavy spectacles, and blinked slowly as he looked impassively at his visitor.

  Vincent stood for a moment in real surprise; then he suddenly remembered his mission. It was advisable that he should express no amazement in this room.

  He assumed a matter-of-fact pose and walked deliberately across the floor to the desk where the old Chinaman sat.

  He knew that this must be Wang Foo, the tea merchant. There was no need for introduction. Gaining confidence, Vincent reached into his vest pocket, removed the disk with the Chinese characters, and exhibited it on the palm of his hand, which he thrust close to the Chinaman’s eyes.

  Wang Foo nodded knowingly.

  He rose and bowed.

  Vincent returned the bow and dropped the disk back into his vest pocket.

  Old Wang Foo tottered across the room. Vincent watched him curiously as Wang Foo went to a miniature pagoda standing in a corner near the door.

  As the Chinaman stooped and pressed a secret spring in the pagoda, his visitor noticed a strange occurrence. The shadow of the old Chinaman seemed to lengthen, across the floor and up the wall.

  Startled, Vincent looked all about him, suspecting that some other person was in the room.

  He saw only the black tapestries, which were motionless.

  When Vincent looked at Wang Foo the old Chinaman had turned, and was holding two articles in his hands: one a large sealed package, the other a small teakwood box.

  Vincent advanced to receive the package, but the Chinaman brushed by him and returned to the desk.

  Seated there, he laid both objects on the table. He pressed his right hand upon the package as though to draw it to him, and with his left he pushed the little box across the table.

  “Unlock,” said Wang Foo.

  “Unlock what?” asked Vincent.

  The sound of the voices seemed ominous in the midst of the curtained room.

  “The box,” said Wang Foo.

  Vincent was puzzled.

  “How can I unlock the box?” he demanded.

  The old Chinaman leaned back in his chair and stared through his heavy glasses.

  “With the key,” he said slowly.

  Vincent did not reply.

  “You have the key?” questioned Wang Foo quietly.

  His visitor remained silent.

  “Strange,” murmured the old Chinaman, and Vincent wondered at the excellence of his English. “Strange. You have no key. No key from my friend, Wu Sun. Yet Wu Sun sent you?”

  The name was unfamiliar to Vincent. He was on the point of nodding, but suddenly feared that he might betray himself. He looked steadily at Wang Foo, seeking some clew as to the answer he should give, but the old Mongol’s face stayed impassive.

  “No key from Wu Sun,” said Wang Foo, calmly. “My friend, Wu Sun, has sent his men before; always with that same disk the token of Hoang Ho - which you carry.

  “But I sent a message to Wu Sun, six months ago. I said: ‘It is not the part of wisdom to rely upon one token only. Here is the key to a little box. Let the messenger carry it, and unlock the box for me. Then I shall know it is the true messenger.’ ”

  The slow, cold, monotonous words of the old Chinaman thrust terror into Vincent’s heart. But he steadied himself and became quite calm as he shrugged his shoulders, and replied:

  “Wu Sun said nothing to me about a key. He gave me the token only. He must have forgotten the key.”

  Wang Foo pointed one finger upward.

  “Wu Sun never forgets,” he announced.

  The uplifted finger turned and pointed straight at Vincent. The significance of it suddenly dawned upon him. It was a signal!

  He turned quickly, but he was too late. From the tapestries at the sides of the room, two giant Chinamen had already emerged.

  Before he could move a hand to resist, Vincent was stretched upon the floor, his arms pinned behind his back, and his feet bound with leather thongs!

  CHAPTER IX

  THE ROOM OF DOOM

  Vincent had been lying for a full hour on the floor of Wang Foo’s elegant den. His hands and feet were bound with leather straps that would not yield; a silken gag prevented him from crying out for help.

  The old tea merchant paid no more attention to him than if he had been a part of the furnishings of the room. Vincent could watch the bespectacled Mongol as he wrote at his desk. Wang Foo was a mild-appearing Chinaman, but nothing in his actions brought hope to the captive American.

  The Chinese disk - the token of Hoang-Ho - had been taken from Vincent’s pocket, but he had not been injured in any way.

  What would Wang Foo do next? Vincent had pondered upon the question ever since his capture. There seemed to be no answer.

  At last, after minutes that seemed endless, Wang Foo arose from his desk and walked with tottering steps to a corner where Vincent could see a Chinese gong. The aged Celestial tapped the gong four times. Instantly, the two huge Chinese reappeared from behind the tapestries.

  “Clever old chap,” said Vincent to himself. “Has two strong men always ready. The place looked harmless enough when I came in.”

  Wang Foo pointed a birdlike claw toward the prostrate captive helpless on the floor. Without further ado, the two yellow giants lifted Vincent, and carried him to the door. Wang Foo opened it for them.

  In the hallway, as though by secret understanding, they were joined by the Chinaman who had first met Vincent in the shop and who had guided him to Wang Foo’s apartment. He it was who took the lead, jangling a ring of large, brass keys. The two with Vincent for burden, followed. Wang Foo brought up the rear.

  The party proceeded up a steep, side stairway which Vincent had not observed upon his arrival. The Celestial with the keys, unlocked door after door for them. There were many doors, and the unlocking of each was made a little ceremony.

  At last, following a confusing journey, they entered a cell-like chamber. It was lighted by a faint share of daylight which trickled through a small, barred window.

  There Vi
ncent was deposited. Four posts surrounded him; a wooden collar supported his neck; his ankles rested upon a similar, semi-circular device which was open at the top.

  Staring upward, Vincent saw a vague shape looming from above. And, as his eyes became accustomed to the dim light, he was able to identify this as the sharp blade of a huge cleaver suspended from the upright posts.

  The yellow men were engaged in thrusting a chain beneath Vincent’s arms.

  Momentarily struck by panic, Vincent attempted to struggle to his feet. At once, one of his captors pounded upon his legs, pinning them down. Then Vincent felt a second chain being wound about his ankles. There followed the click of padlocks.

  The leather thongs were left in position, as well. Vincent found it impossible to move his body; his position seemed barren of hope.

  Wang Foo clapped his leathery hands. The three Chinamen left.

  “You have made a great mistake,” said the ancient Celestial in his even-toned, perfect English. “For this you will know your doom. We who come from the land of China, do not delight in torture, although the ignorant say we do. We bring quick death - the death that you will experience.”

  He stepped back. Vincent followed him with his eyes, and saw the old Chinaman lift a chain from the great cleaver that loomed from above.

  “When this chain is released,” explained Wang Foo, in a pitiless voice, “the great knife will fall and end your life. It will be quick that you will feel no pain.”

  Wang Foo replaced the chain.

  “I, myself,” he said, “shall let the great knife fall. From my own room, the mere touch of my hand will do the work. None up here can stop it. But, lest my plan should fail, I shall leave a guard to watch you.”

  He clapped his hands four times. A short, bland-faced Chinaman appeared in the doorway. Wang Foo gave instructions in Chinese, and the other man bobbed his head.

  “The exact moment of your death,” said old Wang Foo, again addressing his prisoner, “will be arranged beforehand.”

  He turned to the new arrival and took from him a huge hourglass, which he set on the sill beside the barred window. Vincent could see the glass plainly. The sand was all in the bottom.