“If The Shadow is in Chinatown, he cannot leave. He will be brought to Yat Soon. I, Yat Soon, shall keep him living if he lives when he comes here. I, Yat Soon, shall keep him dead if he is brought here dead.”
“All right,” nodded Snakes. “But if you get The Shadow — how will Gray Fist know?”
“You may come to Chinatown,” replied Yat Soon solemnly, “but not beyond the entrance of my abode. The outer guardian will tell you when The Shadow has been captured.”
“But how—”
“He will say to you these words,” resumed Yat Soon, not heeding the gangster’s interruption, “these words which you can easily remember: ‘Yat Soon rules.’ By those words, you may know that The Shadow is in the power of Yat Soon.”
Solemnly, the Chinese leader ceased his speech. He waved his hand toward the wall where Snakes had entered. Turning, the gangster saw a solid panel. He had the uneasy feeling that this room was filled with such panels; that many entrances converged in Yat Soon’s reception room.
The panel slid up of its own accord. Snakes Blakey shambled through the opening, which closed behind him. Glancing warily over his shoulder, Snakes again saw the brass door which formed the outer surface of the portal.
Guards moved Snakes along the way that he had come. For the second time, the emissary of Gray Fist was departing from Yat Soon’s. He had come here, at Gray Fist’s order, on the night before. He was glad that he would not have to come again — until The Shadow had been taken prisoner.
The Shadow was in Chinatown. Yellow-faced searchers were looking for him. They would bring him to Yat Soon, the mighty man who ruled the tongs!
Snakes Blakey felt sure that he could tell Gray Fist that Yat Soon would find The Shadow!
CHAPTER XIX
CARDONA’S LUCK
DETECTIVE JOE CARDONA had no inkling of what was going on in Chinatown. In fact, the ace had not even linked up recent gang frays of the underworld with the case that now concerned him. He knew that gangsters figured in the affairs of the supercrook whom he was seeking to find; but he expected to find disturbing elements in the better sections of New York.
Cardona had based much upon his list of names. His decision that Ruggles Preston was the agent of a master crook had been a good one. But Cardona had played his cards wrong during the day that had passed since Preston’s death. He had resolved to approach people cautiously, to find out if there were others in Worth Varden’s class — men who had been racketeered by Seth Cowry.
With a new evening here, Cardona had started down the list. He put in a telephone call to the home of Westford Blackdale, a clothing manufacturer. He was informed that Mr. Blackdale had left New York on a business trip.
A call to Martin Fetzler, a Brooklyn banker, produced the same result. Third on the list had been Landis Glascomb, a Wall Street financier. Cardona’s inquiry had brought the reply that Glascomb had left town.
By that time, Cardona came to a startling realization. He knew that the fears Worth Varden had expressed could not have been feigned. Some menace was hanging over every man whose name appeared on the list discovered in Ruggles Preston’s apartment!
All had disappeared, like Worth Varden! Did they know from reading the newspaper, that the death of Ruggles Preston had brought their names into the hands of the police? Cardona considered that point, and decided negatively. Worth Varden had not mentioned Ruggles Preston.
Cardona sought another explanation. He found it. These men: Blackdale, Fetzler, and Glascomb — together with the rest, on the list — had been under the same cloud as Worth Varden. Cardona had exhausted every name, traveling alphabetically from Glascomb down the line. Not one was in town.
Varden, Cardona decided, had been the only one with nerve enough to call detective headquarters. He had paid for his temerity with his life. Preston, too, had been slain. A fierce hand was behind it all, and the master worker had doubtless ordered all of his prospective victims to leave New York City at once.
With this key to the situation, Cardona decided upon a new plan. His call to the men on the list had been anonymous. He had received no certainty that they were actually away from New York. Perhaps some had planned to leave, and had simply given instructions that they were about to go.
REMEMBERING Worth Varden, Cardona figured that some one of the listed men might be ready to talk if approached. So he began again and called each residence. He told the person who answered at Blackdale’s that he was anxious for the manufacturer to call detective headquarters. He repeated the same formula when he telephoned Fetzler and Glascomb.
Cardona’s fourth call was to a broker named Grant Jillings. The detective hung up after he had delivered his message and prepared to call another on the list. As he reached for the telephone, it rang. A plaintive voice came over the wire.
“Detective Cardona?”
“Yes,” answered the detective.
“You called me,” said the voice in a cautious tone. “I want to see you.”
“What is the name?” inquired Cardona.
There was a pause. Then, the voice spoke once more, this time with a statement that was almost whispered:
“Landis Glascomb.”
Cardona was elated. He had found one man who had not actually left New York.
“How soon can I see you?” questioned Cardona.
“As soon as possible,” Glascomb’s voice was quavering. “I am under a great strain. I have much to tell. But I am afraid. You must come to see me — but be careful.”
“Careful?”
“Yes. That no one may know you are visiting me. I am practically in hiding, at my home. If it were known that I am in New York, it might mean my death.”
The words were spoken in a tone of real terror. They added to Cardona’s eagerness to meet Landis Glascomb.
“I’ll be at your house in an hour,” stated the detective, then terminated the conversation.
Cardona had no difficulty finding Landis Glascomb’s residence. He went by taxicab to an uptown street. There he alighted and sauntered down the thoroughfare until he spied the number of a brownstone building. Like a chance visitor, the detective ascended the steps and rang the bell.
Joe had a sensation that eyes might be watching him. He expected something of the sort from within the house; he was also disturbed by the thought that spies might be outside. At the same time, the detective had taken guard against recognition. He had his overcoat muffled up about his neck, and was standing close to the darkness of the door.
The portal opened cautiously. Cardona saw a white-faced servant looking out. In a low voice, Cardona whispered his name. The servant beckoned. Joe entered, and the door closed behind him.
The residence was a well-kept one. Joe Cardona noticed the costliness of its furnishings as the servant led him past a gloomy parlor, up a flight of stairs, and along the second-floor hall. Following his guide, Joe went up another flight. On the third floor the servant stopped and rapped at a door. It opened, and a stoop-shouldered man peered cautiously forth from a dimly-lighted room.
“Detective Cardona?” he queried.
“Yes,” acknowledged the sleuth.
“Come in,” was the man’s reply. “I am Landis Glascomb.”
WITHIN the room, Cardona saw at once that Glascomb was in hiding. This was a servant’s room — one that had evidently been unoccupied until Glascomb had taken it. Cardona turned to view the man who had received him. Glascomb was slumping into a chair. Seen in better light, the man looked older than Cardona had supposed.
Landis Glascomb’s face was peaked. His eyes, though sharp, were furtive. His expression showed deep worry. Cardona, through his long experience, could tell that some great burden weighed heavily upon the mind of the old financier.