The Ribbon Clues

CHAPTER IX. THE SHADOW’S PLAN

“STOP here, Stanley.”

The quiet tone came through the speaking tube of Lamont Cranston’s limousine. The chauffeur pulled over to a darkened curb beneath the gloomy structure of an elevated. The car had reached a spot downtown, near where Stanley usually veered over to the Holland Tube, en route to his master’s New Jersey residence.

Stanley was not surprised at the order that had come in Cranston’s voice. He was trained to do his master’s bidding. Frequently he was instructed to stop and wait in isolated districts. Stolidly, Stanley stared ahead. He did not see the rear door open; nor did he see the figure that emerged.

The fringes of the darkened street obscured The Shadow’s glide. His phantom course was untraceable as he reached a side street and moved from the avenue.

The Shadow reached a darkened, curving street. As he passed a bend, a glow of lights flashed into view, a half block ahead. The Shadow was approaching a quarter where brightness reigned; where many passers-by were present. He was on the outskirts of New York’s Chinatown. Half a block more would bring him into the glare of that bizarre district.

The Shadow stopped short of the lights. Little shops fringed this side street; they had closed earlier than those in the glittering area. The Shadow chose one doorway; stepping into its blackened recesses, he gripped the brass knob of an obscure door.

Twisting with gloved hand, he unscrewed the knob; then pressed a lever beneath it. The latch clicked; the door opened inward. The Shadow stepped into the darkness of the Oriental shop. Deftly he screwed the knob back into place and let the door swing shut to a silent stop.

A tiny flashlight glimmered. Picking his way through the deserted store, The Shadow found a paneled recess. He pressed a hidden catch; the panel slid open, then shut automatically after the visitor passed.

Using his light, The Shadow found another barrier. He opened this sliding door in the same fashion as the first. He stepped into a lighted passage.

A spectral shape, looming large in the dull illumination, The Shadow began a mazelike course. He descended steps; the passage became musty. Low lights showed the way; new passages appeared.

The Shadow chose varied routes, picking his way through an underground labyrinth. There were new barriers; The Shadow understood their combinations. There were junction points, where The Shadow paused to listen to the tramp of distant guards, underground denizens of these catacombs.

His course unchallenged in its devious turns, The Shadow came at length to a brass door. He pressed a hidden spring. The barrier slid upward. The Shadow stepped into a square room, where mellow light revealed paneled walls. The door slid downward into place.

SEATED in the square room was a Chinaman, whose black eyes gazed with cold placidity from his yellowed face. The Chinaman was clad in robes of deep maroon, these garments emblazoned with frosted dragons of a dull-gold hue.

This worthy was Yat Soon, the arbiter of Chinatown, the man whose word was law among the secret tongs. This paneled room was Yat Soon’s reception chamber.

Usually visitors to this place found the room devoid of furniture. It was Yat Soon’s custom to stand while holding an interview. Tonight, however, the arbiter was seated; before him was a taboret; beyond it a second chair that matched the one in which Yat Soon was seated.

As Yat Soon saw his cloaked visitor, he arose and bowed. The Shadow approached the second chair.

He and the Chinaman seated themselves. It was plain that Yat Soon had expected his weird guest, and had made preparation for conference.

The Shadow spoke. His words were in the Chinese tongue; they gave a strange impressiveness to the singsong inflection of that Oriental speech.

Yat Soon bowed in acknowledgment, then made reply. In deference to his visitor, the arbiter spoke in English. It was a strange conversation, each participant showing perfect knowledge of the other’s language.

“As Yat Soon spoke before,” declared the Chinaman, in solemn tone, “so does Yat Soon still speak. The merchant Leng Doy has hidden himself well. Naught has been learned of the place where he abides.”

The Shadow spoke again in Chinese. Yat Soon nodded solemnly; then replied.

“The room within the Wuhu Cafe,” he declared, “was long ago the private meeting place of Leng Doy. It was chosen by Leng Doy and other merchants that they might plan and protect themselves should the tongs threaten them.”

Yat Soon’s eyes were steady as he paused. The Shadow gave no response; the arbiter spoke carefully.

“It was unwise for one to go into that meeting place,” he declared. “The men who served Leng Doy were guilty of no wrong when they gave fight. They knew nothing of their master’s purpose. It was their duty to protect and to obey Leng Doy.

“There was cause for you to go there; but none for you to bring quarrel with the faithful servants of Leng Doy. Your deed, therefore, was the part of wisdom. You went from the meeting place of Leng Doy. You brought harm to none.

“Yat Soon has spoken with those servants of Leng Doy. They are men whose ways are innocent of crime. To them was entrusted only the keeping of that place. They know not where Leng Doy has departed.”

YAT SOON reached beneath his darkened robe and produced a slender scroll. He passed the coiled cylinder to The Shadow, who unrolled it with his gloved fingers. The parchment was inscribed with Chinese characters. The Shadow read the statement with steady, gleaming eyes.

“Your part was that of wisdom,” repeated Yat Soon, while The Shadow read the Chinese scroll. “That is why I, Yat Soon, have sought and gained the facts which you now read. The parchment tells all that has yet been learned of Leng Doy.

“It is true that he has other places wherein he may hide. It is true that none can tell where those places may be. It is true that he has other servants, whose names even I, Yat Soon, have not yet learned.”

Yat Soon paused. The Shadow concluded his reading of the report and passed the scroll to the Chinaman. The parchment coiled as it changed hands; Yat Soon thrust it beneath his robe. The Shadow spoke a query in Chinese. Yat Soon bowed; then gave reply.

“Of the American,” stated the arbiter, “the man who bears the name of David Callard, I can tell naught. As yet it is unknown concerning him. I, Yat Soon, must learn the names of those in China whose purposes he served. Then shall it be known whether they were seeking good or evil.

“As you have read, Leng Doy, the merchant, was known to men in Canton. It must be that the name of Leng Doy was given to the American by those men in China. Leng Doy is of no tong; that is why I, Yat Soon, have not learned who were once his friends.”

The Shadow spoke in Chinese; his discourse was prolonged. It brought solemn blinks from Yat Soon.

When The Shadow had finished, the arbiter raised both hands to the level of his robed shoulders and stretched his thumbs and fingers against the background of maroon.

“Within the span of ten days,” pronounced the steady eyed Celestial, “I, Yat Soon, shall learn wherever Leng Doy may be. With Leng Doy will be found the American whom you seek. Both shall be brought to this place, that you may speak with them in the presence of Yat Soon.”

Yat Soon arose and bowed. The Shadow followed suit; he turned toward the wall as Yat Soon waved a long-fingered hand. A solid panel slid upward. The Shadow stepped through the opening. The panel descended; The Shadow was outside another brass-fronted door.

Following a new course of passages, The Shadow reached the shop that he had originally entered. He encountered no watchers on the way. Yat Soon had apparently arranged that his visitor’s route be unmolested.

Gaining the street, The Shadow faded into blackness. His course became untraceable. The next sign of his presence occurred later, when a blue light clicked in the depths of a darkened room.

THE SHADOW was in his sanctum, an abode even more mysterious than the reception room of Yat Soon. The Shadow’s visit to the arbiter had been negative; yet from it he had gained facts that were to have important bearing on his coming plan.

The Shadow’s whispered laugh sounded in the sanctum. His right hand, ungloved, was inscribing written statements upon a sheet of paper beneath the blue-rayed light.

He was putting down points of testimony that he had heard at the scene of crime tonight, adding facts to some of those that he had discussed with Commissioner Weston.

The Shadow paused. He had reached a point of speculation, with those words “further crime.” To The Shadow, it was evident that Ralgood and Shurrick had been slain because of knowledge that they possessed concerning their deceased friend, Milton Callard. The old millionaire had known others. More men might plausibly be in danger. The Shadow wrote again:

These showed The Shadow’s purpose. First, to find other persons who had known old Milton Callard, something that the police had shown no speed in doing.

Next, to slow the approach of intended crime by some device that would divert the murderer for the present. Again, to watch some spot that forced conditions would render temporarily important. Finally, to make the killer reveal himself in the presence of the law.

The Shadow’s writing faded; such was the way with the ink he used in notations of this type. The Shadow reached across the table surface beneath the blue light. He brought earphones from the wall beyond. A tiny bulb glimmered; a voice came across the wire:

“Burbank speaking.”

“Report,” ordered The Shadow.

“Report from Burke,” stated Burbank in level tones. “Interview with Cardona—”

Burbank’s voice kept on. It gave details that The Shadow had already learned. Cardona had given Clyde an excellent story; the reporter stood well at headquarters because of his aid in gaining Mallikan’s testimony about Dave Callard.

Clyde had talked with Lattan, Dolver and the employees at the apartment house. He had been told about the missing locket; he had seen the revolver that had been used in murder. His report corroborated the fact that police were on guard at the apartment house. It also added one point that brought a whispered laugh from The Shadow, namely that Courtney Dolver was going to his Long Island residence on the morrow.

The report completed, The Shadow spoke instructions. They were detailed intonations that brought pauses in which Burbank gave quiet acknowledgment. Steadily, The Shadow was dictating the outline for a newspaper story.

He was emphasizing facts that Clyde Burke would have subordinated. He was shaping a sensational story to replace the one that the reporter had already prepared for the columns of the New York Classic.

His statements finished, The Shadow thrust the earphones to the wall. The bluish light clicked out; a swish in darkness, the echoed whisper of a sinister laugh — those were the signs of The Shadow’s departure.

LATER, Stanley awoke from a drowse at the wheel of Lamont Cranston’s limousine. A voice had brought him from his light slumber — the quiet voice of Cranston, through the speaking tube beside the chauffeur’s ear.

Nodding, Stanley started the big car and headed toward the Holland Tube. The Shadow’s work had been accomplished for the night. Again in the guise of Lamont Cranston, he was riding to the New Jersey mansion wherein he dwelt when he played the part of the leisurely millionaire.