Shadow 001 - The Living Shadow

CHAPTER XIII LOO CHOY’S COUSIN

STRANGE were the methods of The Shadow, Master of action, he could also play a passive, waiting game. Aiming for quick success, he had thrust Harry Vincent into the role of messenger to Wang Foo. That stroke parried, The Shadow had sent his rescued agent on a new and less dangerous assignment.

Amazing in his ability at disguise, The Shadow had visited detective headquarters unsuspected. His next move would be to cover the house of Wang Foo; and this campaign of strategy was one that demanded his lone attention.

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 passers-by 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.

On the day after The Shadow’s trip to headquarters, 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.

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. Passers-by 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 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 intrust 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 far-away 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 taking 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!