The Living Shadow s-1

by Maxwell Grant

  Cardona shook his head.

  “Wish I could agree with you, Malone. But I don’t. Where would they get rid of the stuff outside of the places we know about?”

  “Maybe they’re selling them to some chink.”

  Another shake of the Italian’s head.

  “No, Malone. These crooks don’t trust the Chinese.”

  “Well, that’s usually true. But I’ve heard talk of the chinks handling stuff.”

  “All talk, Malone. I’ve investigated. Looked over plenty of chinks. Nothing to it.”

  “Maybe they were putting one over on you, Joe. The chinks are a foxy lot.”

  The Italian detective almost accepted this idea.

  “Maybe so,” he said.

  “Well, if you get a tip on the chinks,” said Malone, “I’d advise you to follow it.”

  “I agree with you there,” said the detective. “I’ll jump to any real tip with a Chinese twist.”

  “Yeah, and think of this other angle. A big man in back of it. Two men, maybe. More than two, perhaps. I’m old in the game, Joe. This is something new. Big fellows laying low; little fellows doing the dirty work. Even then, I may not be at the bottom of it.”

  “Listen, Malone,” said Cardona. “The big-minded idea is all right enough, but a big mind betrays itself. And there’s none in sight right now. I know. Because I handled a case once that had a big mind in it. You remember Diamond Bert?”

  “Yeah. What was his real name?”

  “Well, I’m not quite sure. Diamond Bert Farwell was what we knew him as. He went after jewels. Always had trouble getting rid of them, though. That’s where we began to get him.”

  “Maybe there’s another like him.”

  “Not a chance, Malone. That fellow was wise. He would wait for anything. Played safe. The public never heard of him, just on that account. He must have been preparing a long while before he pulled his first jobs. Then they came quick; but he slipped up when he turned the jewels over to a fence. That was where he made his mistake.”

  “I know that, Joe.”

  “There’ll never be another like him, Malone. He’s gone now. Killed five years ago. We got the goods back; recovered so much that the public forgot all about the robberies. Then we were after Diamond Bert. Had his picture, his record - everything. He’d been a bad boy when he was younger.”

  “Do you think we’d have got him, Joe?”

  “If he hadn’t been killed when that car went off the bridge? You bet we’d have got him!”

  “Maybe. He was smart, though.”

  “Sure. Came from a good family. Met his brother once. He came from California. Guess he was glad enough when Bert cashed in. Tough on a good family when the black sheep makes trouble.”

  “When did you meet the brother?”

  “Before Bert died. He had a couple of brothers and sisters. All fine people. I sorta ran into them when we were getting the goods on Bert. Then - phooey - Bert was killed and that was the end of it all. Yes, Malone, there was one man. One man. He might have been clever enough to pull this kind of a game you’re talking about, but he’s gone. Wise - could talk all kind of languages. Smooth - could pass in any company. He’s dead, and that’s that. I’m glad he’s gone.”

  Inspector Malone lifted himself from his chair.

  “Well, Joe, let’s move along. Keep working, boy.”

  “I’ll do that, inspector. We’ll keep on grinding and watching the fences. That’ll bring results.”

  “Look for brains, too,” said the inspector as they reached the door.

  “Fritz, for example,” replied Cardona, pointing his thumb at the slow-moving janitor who was now working down the corridor.

  “Watch the chinks,” reminded Malone.

  “I’ll do that - if I get a real tip-off.”

  The two men passed the janitor.

  “Good-night, Fritz.”

  “Yah.”

  The door clanged behind the inspector and the detective. Fritz the janitor, leaned on the handle of his mop.

  “Diamond Bert,” he said softly. “Diamond Bert Farwell! Dead!”

  He thrust the mop and the bucket into a niche in the wall. He shambled down the corridor toward the door opposite the one through which the men had made their exit. As he reached the end of the hallway, a low, soft laugh echoed from the walls. A low, quiet laugh, but a mocking laugh; a laugh that would have surprised both Inspector Malone and Detective Cardona, had they been there to hear it.

  CHAPTER XIII

  LOO CHOY’S COUSIN

  Time moved slowly in Chinatown. On the outskirts, where Wang Foo’s tea shop stood, there was comparatively little bustle in the street. Many of the passersby were Chinese; others were ragged specimens of American humanity. An occasional taxicab, drifting by from the more used streets of Manhattan, would wake the quiet street with its roar, but on the whole the scene outside the shop was serene.

  Strangers went by apparently unnoticed. But the Chinaman, although his eyes seem to peer straight ahead, can see more from out their sides than one would suppose. And Wang Foo’s tea shop, despite its seeming desertion, was a house of many eyes.

  Of late, Wang Foo’s tea shop was more quiet and still than ever. Since a certain happening, no one was seen entering its dilapidated door. The windows grew dustier; the piles of tea boxes were undisturbed. Wang Foo was a prosperous tea merchant, every one knew - yet somehow the Chinese can be prosperous without the bustle and activity that attends business normally.

  One day a newsboy might have been observed in front of Wang Foo’s tea shop. It seemed a poor post for business, yet he kept bravely at it, back and forth; up and down the street - but never far from Wang Foo’s. He even entered the doorway of the tea shop but did not tarry after he had received a sign of negation from Loo Choy, the calm, almond-eyed Celestial who was forever behind the counter of Wang Foo’s shop.

  It seemed as though the cries of the newsboy must have had its influence on potential customers. For no one came or left the door of Wang Foo’s shop on that particular day. The newsboy was a big fellow really too old to be called a “boy,” and old enough, evidently, to have chosen a better spot for business. Yet he came back a while the next day; then, evidently finding it a hopeless task, he returned no more.

  But, on the following day, a bearded cripple chose a spot almost directly across the street from the tea shop. He was a distorted specimen of humanity. His twisted body, and the stump of an arm that he exhibited had all the marks of genuine deformities. But there was little pity for the cripple in that district. His tin cup collected a few pennies each day that he remained in his chosen place. But he, too, must have thought better fields could be worked, and he went away and did not come back.

  It must have been a tiresome sight for the cripple to sit all day with that dingy, black-windowed building in front of him. It was a hopeless sort of building. The signs needed paint; the usual Chinese banners were absent.

  At night, the building lost some of its dinginess, but it assumed an ominous appearance. It loomed, a black foreboding mass. No lights appeared at the upper windows. If rooms were occupied, they were certainly not those in front of the house.

  At dusk huge shadows fell across the street from Wang Foo’s tea shop. Life seemed to lurk in those shadows. They were almost real. Passersby kept near the curb, and away from the old rickety buildings that were across from Wang Foo’s. As for the side of the street where the tea, shop stood no one walked there at all, it seemed.

  There was a dim light downstairs in the shop itself: a very dim light, for the tea shop remained open half the night, waiting for customers who never came; open for business that did not appear. One evening - in fact, the very night that the cripple had quit the street, a Chinaman entered the tea shop.

  He did not come there to buy. He merely visited to talk with his friend, Loo Choy. For Loo Choy, despite the fact that he stood all day in the tea shop apparently unconcerned by lack of company, was considered quite a
gossip among his Chinese friends.

  This evening he greeted his visitor with a babble of lingo. So intent was he on his conversation that he did not eject the drunken white man who staggered in the door to prop himself against a pile of tea boxes.

  After all, it was cool outside; the harmless outcast had no coat, and he was welcome to stay there for a while - so long as Loo Choy had conversation on his mind.

  The American - through his haze - appeared interested in what the Chinese said. Occasionally he would start to interject a remark in English, gazing solemnly at the two Celestials with his bloodshot eyes. But always he apparently changed his mind. At last he listened - listened as though fascinated by the strange utterances of the two Chinamen, even though the language must be beyond his comprehension.

  Loo Choy was seeking sympathy. He was tired of his job. One would never have suspected it from his bland countenance.

  He was actually burdened in mind, he told his visiting friend. There was too much work to do. Standing all day; guarding the empty tea boxes; always anxious and eagerly awaiting a customer. It was a strain, even for a Chinaman. He needed both a substitute and a helper.

  But Wang Foo would object, of course. One time Loo Choy had had a substitute. His cousin, Ling Chow, had served in that capacity. In fact, Ling Chow had worked two years for old Wang Foo. But he had saved money and had become enterprising. He had moved to some unknown city and for twelve long months Loo Choy had heard nothing from him.

  Yes, Ling Chow had written once - when he had arrived at his destination, but the postmark was smudged. He had opened a laundry and probably was doing well. Perhaps some day, Loo Choy would also open a laundry.

  But now he had but one ambition - a week’s vacation to loll about through Chinatown, then to take turns with his helper. The other man could stay in the tea shop in the afternoon; he, Loo Choy would remain there at night. But there was only one man to whom Wang Foo would entrust such important duties - that man was Loo Choy’s cousin, Ling Chow.

  He produced the letter that Ling Chow had sent him a year ago. It was written in Chinese, of course; but some American had addressed the envelope. The envelope was old and dirty. Loo Choy laid it on the counter when he opened the letter.

  Had he been able to read the postmark on the envelope, he would have learned that faraway city was Yonkers, and that it was not far away at all.

  The drunken, coatless white man who had sought refuge in the tea shop might have managed to decipher the postmark, for while the envelope was lying on the counter he staggered forward and began to babble in a foolish way. Thereupon Loo Choy and his friend ejected the troublesome disturber and went on with their conversation.

  The next morning, there was neither newsboy nor cripple in the street outside the tea shop, nor during that afternoon. This was a matter of some consequence to Loo Choy, for every afternoon his master, Wang Foo, inquired whom he had seen outside the store.

  Then, early in the evening, shortly after he had made his daily report to Wang Foo, Loo Choy received an agreeable surprise which he took in typically calm Chinese fashion. For in walked his old cousin, Ling Chow.

  There was something different about Ling Chow. He looked very much the same; he talked very much the same - but somehow he was different. Ling Chow had never talked very much, and he said very little now. He had left his laundry business for a while. He would like something to do.

  Loo Choy proposed the opportunity. Ling Chow would take his place for a week.

  At first Ling Chow seemed reluctant to do so. Finally, he consented.

  So Loo Choy toddled upstairs and arranged matters with Wang Foo. The old Chinaman remembered Ling Chow, of course. He remembered everything. He asked to see Ling Chow, and when the cousin was admitted to the sanctum, the old tea merchant gave him certain instructions which seemed quite familiar to Ling Chow.

  For one week thereafter, Ling Chow stood behind the counter of Wang Foo’s tea shop.

  During the week, no one loitered in the narrow street. Strangely enough, a few visitors appeared during that period. At night, the shadows were not so strange across the street - particularly the shadow that was directly opposite Wang Foo’s tea shop.

  When the week had passed, Loo Choy returned to duty. But he was there during the evening only. In the afternoon, Ling Chow was on the job. In the evenings, the shadow seemed to deepen across the street, after Loo Choy had taken up his work. But no one noticed the shadows, for they were thick and heavy along the thoroughfare.

  Ling Chow stayed on - he was very indefinite about how long he would remain. So Loo Choy was content, and paid very little attention to his friendly cousin. It seemed quite natural for Ling Chow to be there again - natural to both Loo Choy and to Wang Foo. Yet there was a real mystery in his presence.

  For at the same time that Ling Chow was standing behind the counter in Wang Foo’s tea shop, Ling Chow was also talking bundles over the counter of a Chinese laundry in Yonkers!

  There were two Ling Chows; and no one - not even Loo Choy or Wang Foo - could have distinguished one from the other!

  CHAPTER XIV

  AT HOLMWOOD ARMS

  The first week at Holmwood Arms was an enjoyable experience for Harry Vincent. He had lived in luxury at the Metrolite Hotel, but he had been merely one guest among many, and had followed the isolated existence that is the usual routine of those who stay in large hotels.

  But a different spirit prevailed at Holmwood Arms. The inn was a fashionable one and a great deal of the social life of Holmwood centered about its spacious salons. Many of the guests had been residents for years; all of them were persons well situated in life; and they welcomed a new arrival.

  Particularly a gentleman like Harry Vincent. He was very evidently a man of refinement and education. With money at his disposal - and his supply seemed virtually limitless - he was capable of cutting a good figure in such surroundings.

  The mysterious stranger of the bridge had chosen well when he had picked Harry Vincent for a henchman. For the young man was serious, yet affable; friendly, yet discreet.

  Harry felt that he had assumed a real responsibility; that his work demanded proper living and wise action. The fact that he could obtain money whenever he wanted it made him choose the wise course of economy. He limited his expenditures to reasonable amounts, and kept a careful account of all expenses. This had not been asked of him; but he wanted to be ready with a full account, should it ever be demanded of him.

  The great appeal of his unique work lay in the adventure that it offered.

  Harry had always craved adventure; but had never possessed the initiative to seek it. In his present position, it might be forced upon him at any time. He felt that he was ready for it.

  He had no desire to go through another experience like the disaster at Wang Foo’s; at the same time, he had no fear for his future safety.

  The Shadow had been powerful enough to snatch him from the clutches of what seemed certain doom; and Harry felt confident that he would be saved from any danger which might come, or it would not be The Shadow’s fault.

  Harry spent his first week at Holmwood Arms without making any effort to gain quick results. He felt that he was gaining the confidence of the people in the inn; that he was establishing himself soundly in the community.

  Harry drove about considerably in his coupe. The car was a recent model of a high-priced make - speedy, powerful and reliant. He rode slowly past the Laidlow home and took in the surroundings much more effectively than he had from the newspaper photographs. He walked about the district also, but gained no added information during his casual inspections.

  The inn was about half a mile from the town of Holmwood. Leaving the village, one followed a shady avenue that led directly to the home of the murdered millionaire. A side street, turning left from the road to the Laidlow house, went to Holmwood Arms. The millionaire’s house was about a half a mile from the hotel.

  Beyond the Laidlow home was the residence of Ezekie
l Bingham, the well-known lawyer whose testimony had been so important to the police. Bingham’s house was not a pretentious one; the grounds were small, but the place was well kept.

  In his study of the terrain, Harry gained a first-class impression of what must have happened on that eventful night. He rode by the Laidlow house in his car, after dark, and visualized the scene.

  The path that the burglar would logically have followed lay straight across the lawn and through the hedge, Harry thought. Old Ezekiel Bingham must have witnessed the man’s entire flight across the dark grass; but even had he possessed youthful agility, he would have been unable to stop the man.

  During one of his trips to the village, Harry encountered the elderly lawyer. He was in the bank, cashing a check. The teller spoke to Bingham by name.

  Strolling to the door, Harry saw the lawyer enter a large sedan and drive toward his home. Bingham evidently had no chauffeur. He had been driving by the Laidlow house alone on the night of the murder.

  Harry smiled as he observed the slow course of the lawyer’s car. He passed it in his coupe as he rode back to Holmwood Arms; then, on sudden thought, he kept on the road toward the Laidlow home and parked in front of the nearest house before the millionaire’s residence.

  He watched Bingham’s sedan roll slowly by; one could tell that the driver was probably a man of years. He noted the meager speed of the car as it neared the Laidlow estate. If Bingham always traveled at that snail’s pace there was no wonder that the old man had stopped quickly when he heard the shots.

  Back at the inn, Harry did some serious thinking. How far was he getting with his investigation? Not far, he must admit. Nearly ten days had elapsed since his arrival at the Long Island town, and he had merely gained a view of places and people that he had already known about.

  He had not even seen Burgess, Laidlow’s secretary. He had noted one or two persons on the Laidlow grounds, but had not viewed any of them closely. Harry had picked up various remarks regarding the murder, but most of them seemed unimportant, although he remembered them.