Cardona thrust the crumpled paper in his pocket. The detective grinned. He recognized that the men whose names he had learned must be of caliber equal to Worth Varden and Ruggles Preston. Through this list, he could trace them and demand to know all that they might know.
That would come later. First, Cardona intended to investigate this apartment. He would aid the police in clearing up the identities of the dead mobsters. He would learn all he could before he went to see the men who had been named on Preston’s list.
Joe Cardona, though he did not know the type of man he sought, was heading for an encounter with Gray Fist!
He did not realize that he would have to deal with a supercrook who moved while his enemies delayed!
Unwittingly, Cardona was giving Gray Fist an opportunity to clear the trail.
CHAPTER XVIII
IN CHINATOWN
THE Chinese quarter of Manhattan blazed gayly beneath somber night. Twenty-four hours had elapsed since The Shadow had entered this picturesque district. Sightseers were passing through as usual. The corner of Mott and Pell showed its usual mingling of Orient and Occident.
Yet beneath the placid surface, a seething foment was at work. Bland, blinking Chinamen went their ways without betraying their thoughts to any but their fellows. The secret which they held was spoken only in their native tongue.
Lurking mobsters still skulked about the limits of the district. Rats of the underworld were waiting for The Shadow to come out. How long their vigil might last, none could tell. They were willing to wait. They had instructions to keep out of Chinatown itself. They did not know why, but they assumed it was because their presence among the Chinese might attract police attention.
That was, in part, the reason. There was, however, another factor that the hordes of gang land did not recognize. That was the secret which the natives of Chinatown held among themselves. They, like the lurking gangsters, knew that a mysterious stranger had come into their midst. The word had passed about like magic.
Two blinking Celestials were talking in a corner of an Oriental lunch room. While they plied their chop-sticks, these American-garbed Chinese talked in their own language, whispering their words.
“The tongs are united,” declared one.
“True,” returned the other.
“It is because Yat Soon has spoken,” remarked the first.
“When Yat Soon speaks” — the second Chinaman blinked soberly — “all must do his bidding.”
“Yat Soon is above the tongs.”
“The leaders of the tongs obey him.”
That was all. Even the whispered conversation was guarded in its language. But in another spot of Chinatown — the back room of a little Oriental shop — two Mongols were discussing more freely the one subject that held the attention of all the Chinese in New York.
“The one who is here must be taken,” declared the solemn-faced owner of the shop. “Yat Soon has commanded.”
“Yes.” The Chinese visitor nodded and blinked his almond-shaped eyes. “The one who is sought must be taken to Yat Soon.”
“They say he lurks in darkness — this one whom Yat Soon seeks.”
“Yes. He is like a shadow that lives.”
“One cannot capture a living shadow.”
“So Yat Soon has said. But one may kill anything that lives — even a shadow.”
The listener nodded.
“That is why some one will slay,” he declared. “It would be better to kill this strange devil in black than to try to catch him living.”
“He must be brought to Yat Soon.”
“Dead.”
“Dead if he cannot be brought alive.”
CHINESE who lurked on street corners were eyeing the faces of all who passed. They were watching patches of darkness. They studied the faces of all Americans who paced the streets of Chinatown. Moreover, these bland Celestials were watching those of their own ilk.
They knew about The Shadow. They understood that he was more than a phantom garbed in black. They had been told that he was a master of disguise; that he might appear as either an American or an Oriental.
Here in his last refuge, The Shadow stood in greater danger than when he had lived in the underworld. All Chinatown was placidly united in a common quest. Yat Soon, a mysterious power who held weight with all the tongs, had ordered that The Shadow be brought to him!
A man who came along a dim side street was eyed by watching Chinese. Although a stranger in Chinatown, this stoop-shouldered, rat-faced individual was allowed to pass. He grinned as he followed a carefully set course. This visitor to the Oriental district was gang land’s emissary — Snakes Blakey.
Shrewdly, the sneaky mobster went his way. He knew that he would not be challenged. He knew that he possessed a passport that might not have been granted another man from mobland. He also knew that his security here rested upon more than his connection with the underworld. Snakes Blakey was free because he served Gray Fist!
Turning into an alleyway, Snakes stopped before the door of a little shop. He rapped. The door opened. Snakes stepped into a room where a placid Chinaman received him. Snakes was led to the wall. A panel opened. The mobster stepped into a darkened corridor. His conductor followed behind him.
Steps led downward. The two followed a twisting passage beneath the street. They turned into a side corridor. A grunt from the Mongol warned Snakes of new steps. Through a door which opened as they approached; into a lighted anteroom beneath the surface of the ground. There the Chinaman pressed a knob on a huge brass door. The barrier opened.
Snakes advanced up a flight of dimly-lighted steps. As he waited at the top, where corridors divided, a huge Chinaman appeared from darkness, and pointed him to the right.
Snakes reached another dividing point. A second Chinaman approached and conducted the visitor to a large brass door. The Celestial struck the door with a stick. A melodious clank resounded through the gloomy passages. The door slid upward. Snakes Blakey entered a square room, where paneled walls showed dimly in a mellow light.
A SOLEMN Chinaman was standing in this room. Snakes had a feeling of uneasiness when the brass door slid down and he found himself alone with the strange occupant who stood here. The Chinaman was clad in robes of deep maroon. Frosted dragons of dull gold adorned his garments. The black eyes that stared at Snakes were firm and cold.
Snakes Blakey stood in the presence of Yat Soon. He was in the private room of the great arbiter whose name was law among the mysterious secret societies known as the tongs, the fighting fraternities that ruled Chinatown.
“What brings you here?”
The question came in perfect, even English. Yat Soon’s lips scarcely seemed to move.
“I come from Gray Fist,” answered Snakes, in an awed tone. “I have a message.”
The gangster’s hand was scarcely steady as it drew forth a gray envelope. Yat Soon broke the seal and extracted a gray sheet of paper. He unfolded this and held it toward the wall. His fingers pressed a hidden switch. A tiny light showed on the wall. Writing appeared between the portions of the gray paper.
When he had read the message, Yat Soon turned off the light. He looked at Snakes Blakey, and the gangster read disapproval in Yat Soon’s black eyes.
“Return to Gray Fist.” The Chinaman’s voice was a command. “Tell him that this second message was not needed. The one you brought last night was sufficient.
“Tell Gray Fist that since he seeks The Shadow, he shall have The Shadow. No one can escape the searchers of Yat Soon. My abode is hidden. It is more secret than any other in Chinatown. The secrets of all other hiding places are known to Yat Soon.