Green Eyes

CHAPTER XVIII THE HAND OF FOY

FOY was gloating fiendishly as he stooped above the prostrate form of Cleve Branch. The sight of a helpless victim was one that this insidious monster relished.

Foo Chow, cold and observant, was a menace also. In neither of those glaring faces could Cleve see a sign of mercy.

Foy’s right hand came from his robe. It held a wicked-looking knife, sharp-pointed and long of blade.

Speaking in his native tongue, the Chinese slayer addressed Foo Chow. He passed the knife to Foo Chow, and the actor examined it. He returned the knife to Foy.

The slayer seemed in no hurry to do his work. Usually silent, he was loquacious now. His quaintly intonated voice was explaining to Foo Chow that the art of the death thrust was as well known in America as in China — by those who had studied it so cunningly as had Foy.

Cleve could not understand the meaning of the words; but there was something in their inflection that made him realize their malice. Foo Chow listened, unmoved.

Foy crouched low. He placed his hand above Cleve’s heart, and seemed to be choosing the exact place for this thrust — a perfect thrust that Foo Chow would long remember. This, Foy had said, was to be a model stroke — one which Foo Chow would be proud to witness.

The pointed blade poised motionless, a foot above Cleve’s breast. Cleve could not see it, but he sensed its presence.

He had divined, from Foy’s attitude, that the slayer intended to perform a quick, effective murder. That, at least, would be better than a death by torture.

One lone, wild thought came into Cleve’s maddened brain. That thought was of The Shadow — the strange man from the dark, who twice had saved him from death.

Seeking to forget the knife above, Cleve rolled his head and stared in each direction.

There were no shadows in this room. The queer, flickering illumination came from some hidden source. All the floor was the same dull hue. The walls were straight and barren. Only the door offered hope.

Cleve stared toward it, hopelessly. If that barrier could only move upward to admit the only man who could make a rescue here!

But the door did not move. Low, sinister whispers made Cleve stare upward. He saw the gloating face of Foy, with its cruel lips uttering words to the witness. Foo Chow stooped and looked at Cleve’s body, to note the exact spot where Foy said the deadly knife would go.

Up came the hand of Foy. The blade glimmered its message of death. The hand lowered and swung upward again.

Cleve’s bulging eyes were amazed as they saw the knife fly backward from Foy’s hand, as the slayer’s arm was at the top of its swing.

With a swift, incredible leap, Foy flung himself across Cleve’s body. The hands of the slayer seized the throat of Foo Chow and hurled the actor writhing on the floor.

Cleve could not understand. Foo Chow had not spoken; yet Foy was attacking him!

The struggle was swiftly ended. Foo Chow was motionless. Foy crouched above the body of this victim, whom he had taken before he chose to deal with Cleve.

What was the purpose of this odd attack?

Had Foy gone mad? Had he chosen to be alone when he dealt the death thrust that would end Cleve’s life?

The sinister slayer was picking up his knife; he was coming back to Cleve. The helpless man closed his eyes in agony. He could not bear to see that glittering blade rise again.

There was pressure at his feet. Cleve felt his body being rolled over. He moved his feet, and found that the thongs were gone from his ankles — although their cutting pressure still could be felt.

Now the knife slashed the thongs that bound his wrists. Another cut; the gag was loose. Firm arms were helping Cleve to his feet.

Bewildered, he tottered, scarcely able to stand, and he stared at the face of Foy. The man was no longer crouching. His figure had enlarged. Tall, slender, and erect, he was Foy no longer. Only his face appeared to be the face of Foy!

The Shadow!

LIKE a flash, the explanation came to Cleve. It all went back to that night at Darley’s.

He remembered the certain shot that had felled Foy — a shot fired by The Shadow. Why had Cleve doubted the marksmanship of that firm hand that had aimed so often and so perfectly at the Sun Kew!

The single shot at Darley’s had killed Foy. The evil Chinaman had not escaped. His dead body had been removed — by The Shadow!

Last night at Ling Soo’s! That shadow on the floor. A shadow, long and weird, with no one there but Ling Soo and Foy.

That shadow had belonged to Foy — not to Foy himself, but to the man posing as Foy!

Incredible though it seemed, this was the truth. The Shadow had played the part of Foy so perfectly that he had even deceived Ling Soo.

Harbored in the very haunt of Ling Soo, The Shadow, as Foy, had been admitted to the inner circle of the Wu-Fan!

Perhaps he had learned the secrets of the order; perhaps he knew the insidious schemes that brewed tonight; perhaps he knew the identity of Green Eyes!

But The Shadow did not speak. Dwindling, he again became the sinister, crouching Foy, so real in his pose that Cleve could not believe his eyes.

With grimaces, this stooping man signaled Cleve toward the door. Faltering, Cleve went in that direction.

The false Foy stood by the wall. The barrier moved upward. Cleve was in the passage, with the form of Foy behind him; and the barrier had closed.

Cleve moved toward the door that led to the exit through the box in the theater. His companion stopped him.

Cleve looked down at the crouching form. On the floor he saw its shadow — long and amazing. This, alone, was the only proof that the man beside him was not Foy.

The crouching man drew Cleve through an opening that had appeared in the wall. There, in a dim, narrow passage, Cleve heard whispered instructions.

“Through the passage — up the steps — then to the right — through the curtained door — into the hallway outside of Ling Soo’s inner room—”

The rest was plain. Cleve saw the way to safety. A firm hand thrust him forward.

From the end of the passage, Cleve turned to glance behind him. He caught one last glimpse of Foy through the closing door.

There were barriers ahead, but Cleve could pass them. A simple movement of The Shadow’s hand had shown Cleve the way to find the secret catches.

Cleve reached the head of the stairs. He was in total darkness. He felt a barrier ahead, but an opening to the right.

Knowing his location, he was sure that the hidden door before him led into the inner room where Ling Soo might be. To the right, the passage would lead to that door behind the curtain — the very door against which Cleve had huddled, the night that he had spied on Ling Soo and Joseph Darley.

This was his way to the hallway; then the anteroom; and finally the elevator. This roundabout exit from the secret den could not be watched.

The Shadow might be following; or he might have left by the theater. Perhaps he had assumed his garb of black!

These were problems upon which it was useless to ponder. For Cleve could only remember his instructions and another whispered phrase which had been The Shadow’s final utterance:

“Pung-Shoon — tonight!”

The words meant worlds to Cleve. They were the one inkling to what the Wu-Fan might be doing.

Once away from here, lost in the belated crowds of the street, Cleve could summon aid, and raid the junk that lay anchored in the harbor.

But first he must escape!

GROPING, he found the door. The secret catch was the same as the others. The door slid aside.

Cleve peered from the curtain. The brass doors to Ling Soo’s inner room were closed. The hall itself was empty.

Cleve moved forward, and as he did, he tripped stupidly upon the bottom of the curtain. Seeking to regain his footing, he sprawled across the center of the hall.

As he regained his feet, Cleve heard a sound beyond those brass doors. He looked behind him as he reached the door to the anteroom.

Turning, Cleve saw the brass doors opening. Peering between them was the spectacled face of Ling Soo. Cleve’s revolver was in his hand.

The sight of that hated visage maddened him. He pressed the trigger, and fired toward the opening. His first shots made in haste, were wild. The brass doors clanged, and Cleve’s bullets smashed against the emblazoned dragons.

Still firing, with vengeance dominating him, Cleve suddenly realized that he was clicking empty cartridges. His senses returned on the instant.

He had been seen by Ling Soo! The fiend knew that the prisoner had escaped!

Hastening, Cleve gained the elevator and reached the passage to the street. He knew that Ling Soo’s warning was on its way. He must hurry — hurry away from Chinatown, where grim death lurked.

He reached the street and pressed through the throng. In his mad desire, Cleve forgot all else but that one thought — escape!

Away from here, he would be free to act. Within the range of the Wu-Fan, death was a constant danger.

Stolid Chinamen stepped out of the way as Cleve dashed down the street. One man, blocking his path, stood firm. The eyes that peered through yellow lids saw the mark of death upon Cleve’s forehead!

The Chinaman was a member of the Wu-Fan. He seized Cleve, and grappled with him. Cleve swung at him with his empty revolver, but missed his aim. He struggled free and stumbled forward, with his enemy in pursuit.

They were at the edge of Chinatown. Another yellow man had joined in the chase. Cleve’s legs were weakening. He staggered toward the wall and fell, his shouting enemies upon him.

Clutching claws began to beat Cleve’s head against the wall. On the verge of safety, he was facing death again. But others were coming to his aid. Three passing Americans, seeing the menace to their countryman, threw themselves upon the attackers.

Scudding like rats, the two Wu-Fan men dropped their victim and fled for shelter. They scurried into the first alleyway that they saw, but their swift pursuers caught them and laid them flat with well-placed blows.

Cleve, limp and helpless, was carried to a drug store to await the arrival of an ambulance.

He mumbled words as he recovered consciousness. But his words were scarcely audible.

“Pung-Shoon. Tonight.”

Cleve Branch had been saved from the hand of Foy — for the hand of Foy was dead. It was the hand of The Shadow, who lived as Foy, that had saved him.

But Cleve was helpless, now. He could not tell that he had been seen, alive and free, by Ling Soo, leader of the Wu-Fan. Shrewd and cunning, Ling Soo could not fail to realize that the cause had been betrayed by Foy.

The law of the Wu-Fan was death to traitors!

Danger awaited The Shadow!