Shadow 001 - The Living Shadow

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 embedded 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. Vincent 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 Chinaman 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 meaningly.

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 Celestial 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.

The visitor stepped into darkness and 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 motioned 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 or 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 the visitor. It was a signal!

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