He had seen no trace of The Shadow, since he had come — a new man — from the shop of Moy Chen.
But while Cleve Branch was congratulating himself upon that very point, a vague blot upon the curbing slid phantomlike across the street behind him.
It escaped Cleve’s vision for that moment. Then it was obliterated by the darkness of the side street into which Cleve Branch had turned.
The Shadow had not been deceived! The Shadow knew!
CHAPTER VII
CLEVE SEES THE SHADOW
THE entrance to the Sun Kew was unimpressive. Only an old, dimly illuminated sign betokened the place. Cleve Branch entered warily, moving lightly up the cracked wooden steps, abandoning, for the moment, the shuffling gait of Hugo Barnes.
The interior was as uninviting as the outside. Cleve’s supposition was right. The Sun Kew was a restaurant — or, rather, it had been a restaurant, and still preserved a shred of the resemblance. The place was populated by approximately a dozen Chinese, who sat at old tables in the large room.
Most of the men were drinking, and Cleve suspected that their beverage was the rice liquor relished by Chinese of the lower class. Some of those present were villainous-looking. One glance assured Cleve that none of the men who had attended the Wu-Fan meeting were here now.
Cleve had entered the room from a narrow hall. He did not know what lay up that darkened passage. He observed the doors of other, smaller rooms. But his chief attention was turned to the men about him.
Slipping into a chair at a corner table, Cleve avoided close inspection. He kept his eyes alert, turning his gaze occasionally to the door through which he had arrived.
It was several minutes before a tawdry waiter noted that an American had entered. He approached and addressed a few words in Chinese.
Cleve, responding with a shrug of his shoulders, indicated that he did not understand the language. The waiter retired. Cleve decided that the man had gone to inform someone who spoke English.
Under his coat, Cleve had packed a short-muzzled .38. It was his favorite weapon, that revolver. It had served him well on more than one occasion.
He had carried it to Ling Soo’s. He had brought it here; and now his fingers sought it. There might be trouble in this place. Still, the gun must be the last resort.
The waiter was returning. His face did not appear friendly. Again, the Chinaman spoke in his native tongue. A shoulder shrug was Cleve’s second answer.
The waiter signaled, and a man arose from a table close by. He came over and asked a question also. Cleve, half rising from his chair, now found himself in the center of a group of inquisitive Chinese.
They regarded him as an intruder.
Yet they were not malicious in their actions.
Not one of the crowd seemed to be able to talk English. It began to impress Cleve as ridiculous. They were trying to urge him toward the door.
As the explanation dawned on Cleve, he smiled and let his revolver glide from his hand.
These men must be lesser members of the Wu-Fan. Here they were holding a special meeting, awaiting the arrival of more important members. So Cleve believed, and his assumption was a logical one.
None of the men from Ling Soo’s had appeared. These Chinese did not identify the strange American with their organization. That was all.
Cleve thought of the emblem beneath his coat. He had put it there, because it was to be worn concealed in this place — so his informant had said.
Right now, Cleve decided, that emblem would settle matters much more effectively than his government badge!
Quietly and impressively, Cleve drew back his coat and showed the sign of the Wu-Fan. He stepped back as he did so, in order that all might see.
THE result was entirely opposite from what Cleve had anticipated. Before he could move another step away, a knife gleamed as the nearest Chinaman leaped toward him. A wild, angry shout arose, and with it came the cry, “Wu-Fan!”
In another instant, the mad assailant was flinging himself upon the amazed American. Cleve leaped instinctively to one side.
The charging man was none too accurate. His blade sliced Cleve’s sleeve. But this momentary escape was no salvation. As Cleve look up, he saw two new attackers spring from his right.
The door was behind him, but there was no escape now. With the bright blades descending, Cleve saw death, and dropped to the floor.
That action made him helpless. His hand had no time to gain the gun from the hidden pocket. Yet Cleve’s futile effort to elude the knife thrusts actually contributed to the unexpected happening that thwarted the murderous attackers.
Two sharp shots cracked from the blackened doorway. The well-aimed missives found their marks. The first smashed the wrist of the one attacker, the other reached the shoulder of a knife-swinging Chinaman.
Both were upon Cleve now. One knife was poised above his head, but the hand that held it was guided by a deadened arm. The thrust was futile, and as Cleve struck the threatening hand, the blade flew free along the floor.
As he rolled free from his crippled antagonists, Cleve encountered a greater menace. The Chinaman who had made the first thrust was back again, determined not to miss, a second time.
A huge, surly fighter, he pounced upon his prey with upraised arm, and the broad-bladed dirk seemed certain of its victim. For Cleve was half lying on the floor.
Again an automatic spoke from the door. The Chinese assassin dropped his blade. It clattered beside Cleve.
Once again, the hidden marksman had prevailed. The Chinaman was shot in the hand. He dropped to the floor, pressing his wounded fingers against his body.
The man’s actions indicated that he was no longer in the fray. He was writhing, as though in pain. But in that action lay his treachery.
Seeking to deceive his hidden foe, the big Chinaman huddled on the floor, and his left hand, out of sight from the doorway, obtained the knife that the right had dropped.
Cleve was crawling to his feet, his back turned toward the huge Chinaman. Up came that hidden left hand. Swinging into play, it drove the wicked blade straight for the center of Cleve’s back.
The action was deft and swift. Those firmly clenched fingers formed a fist that even a bullet might not loosen on the instant.
Quick though the assassin was, the hidden sharpshooter was swifter. His fourth shot sounded. The bullet, skimming a few inches away from Cleve’s back, reached its chosen mark — not the hand that held the knife, but the blade itself!
There was a sharp clack as the leaden missive clipped the blade. The knife was wrested from the hand that held it, as though plucked away by an invisible being.
Cleve Branch, staggering to his feet and drawing his revolver, found himself facing a trio of startled, bewildered Chinamen, whose death thrusts had been thwarted.
Who was this mysterious rescuer? Cleve did not know. He realized only that he had been saved from certain death; that he had found enemies where he had expected friends.
The attack had been frustrated by an unseen hand, and one lone comrade was ready to assist against a new onslaught.
THE menace of the first encounter had been its suddenness. Cleve had warning of the danger that was coming now — and he saw that he had much to fear.
He was in the midst of an Oriental nightmare. This room was dimly lighted by swaying Chinese lanterns. The three Chinamen, writhing on the floor, seemed grotesque in their odd garbs. Cleve had no dread of them now.
His eyes were staring about the dim room, peering at challenging yellow faces.
A singsong cry was passing back and forth. The name “Wu-Fan” was uttered in a weird, hostile tone. The pause seemed minutes long — yet it could not have been more than several seconds.