WHEN Ling Soo planned, he employed an uncanny craftiness that showed a mingling of Oriental wisdom and Occidental efficiency. Behind those bespectacled eyes of his lay a brain that prepared schemes far more practical than the fantastic visions of a future Chinese Empire.
Ling Soo seldom disclosed the workings of his mind. When he did indulge in reminiscent talk, he used the Chinese language, and the man to whom he expressed his views was Foy — the sinister servant whom Ling mildly dubbed The Slayer.
Ling Soo could be stern with Foy. He dominated the man, and thereby assured himself of Foy’s lasting loyalty.
When Foy incurred Ling Soo’s displeasure, the master spoke harshly. But between these occasional outbursts, Ling Soo usually chose to treat his servant as a confidant — although even then, he was careful not to say too much.
Back in Ling Soo’s abode, the squat Chinaman was seated on his picturesque throne. He had adopted his favorite pose — that of leader of the Wu-Fan. Foy, hovering near, awaited his master’s bidding. No orders came. Instead, Ling Soo began to express his inner thoughts.
“Last night, Foy,” he said, in his native tongue, “you failed. Tonight you shall see that Ling Soo never fails. You will learn, tonight, Foy. You will learn much that you should know.”
The crouching servant leered as his master spoke. His wicked face seemed to express interest in what Ling Soo had to say. The master went on.
“It is time that you should prove your strength, again,” resumed Ling Soo. “You have been lacking, Foy. You have not lived up to the name that I have given you — the name of Slayer. I am disappointed, Foy.
“I had marked the traitor — the man called Laird — for your knife. But Green Eyes spoke, and said that he would do that deed. Green Eyes can strike, Foy, but he cannot slay with the skill that you have shown. When Green Eyes kills — death may be slow. When you kill — death is swift.”
Foy, although unspeaking, seemed to agree with what Ling Soo had said. The master’s voice became more stern as he went on.
“I sent you to the room in the hotel,” he said. “To the room in which the traitor Laird had lived. A new man had come there. His actions showed that he was an enemy. I ordered you to slay. You did not slay.”
“The man was not there,” responded Foy, in a sullen voice.
“You said that he went in,” declared Ling Soo. “You did not see him come out.”
“He was not there,” repeated Foy.
“We may forget that man,” resumed Ling Soo, ignoring Foy’s protest. “He has not appeared since then. It may be well that you did not slay him. But last night, Foy, you failed again.
“I sent you to watch the home of Joseph Darley; to watch while Darley was not there. To come and tell when he had returned. You say to me that you entered there and saw the man whom we call Barnes. Yet you failed to strike.”
“He went away,” growled Foy. “I was not soon enough to strike him.”
“That is no excuse, Foy.” Ling Soo eyed the servant coldly. “It is not like Foy to say that one went away before Foy could strike. This has happened twice, Foy. It shall not happen again.”
Ling Soo paused reflectively and changed the subject with a thoughtful, even tone.
“The man whom we call Barnes,” he said. “He has another name. He is the man who came here before, with Darley. He thinks that he is wise; but he is not so wise as Ling Soo.
“I have been told that he is in these streets tonight. So I have sent two of the Wu-Fan who know him, to bring him hither.
“I wish to speak with him, Foy. But we must remember that you sought to slay him last night. He may have known your wish. He may be suspicious tonight. Do nothing, Foy, to make him view you as an enemy.”
SCARCELY had Ling Soo finished speaking, before a bell rang softly close by. Ling Soo nodded to Foy. The servant left the inner room toward the hallway.
Ling Soo sat serenely on his throne.
He was blinking mildly when the door opened and Foy entered, followed by the man who called himself Hugo Barnes.
To Cleve Branch, firm-faced in spite of his disguise, this meeting was an important one. Since that event at Joseph Darley’s last night, he had been wondering whether it would be wise to again visit Ling Soo. For there, he knew, he might encounter Foy, the insidious slayer who had so mysteriously escaped after The Shadow had wounded him.
Prowling through Chinatown, pondering on this important question, Cleve had encountered one of the Chinese acquaintances who had arranged his entrance into the Wu-Fan. The man had been glad to see him. In a low voice, he had told Cleve that Ling Soo desired to see his American friend as soon as convenient.
So Cleve was here; and the first man he had met was Foy!
The servant’s face was as ugly as before; but it showed no deep-set malice. It seemed evident that Foy must have failed to recognize the man whom he had tried to knife at Darley’s. Nevertheless, Cleve had clutched the handle of his stub-nosed pocket revolver as he had crossed the hallway toward the sanctum of Ling Soo.
The staid leader of the Wu-Fan smiled placidly as Cleve awkwardly raised his forefinger to his forehead. Ling Soo returned the salute.
Cleve sat down in a chair indicated by the Wu-Fan chieftain. He felt relieved when he saw the crouching Foy retire to a corner of the room, where he stood in plain view, his slitted eyelids nearly closed.
Cleve felt at ease as he reflected on the circumstances of this visit. Ling Soo had no knowledge of the spying which Cleve had done. The most that the Chinaman could know was that Cleve had entered Joseph Darley’s apartment, in search of a paper which Ling Soo had given to the head of the Civilian Committee.
Foy had gone there, in anticipation of an intruder. The fact that Cleve was the man who had entered could not have given Ling Soo a real inkling of the part that Cleve was playing, in the disguise of Hugo Barnes.
Perhaps — as Cleve had thought before — Foy had not recognized him. If that were true, Cleve’s position here was as strong as ever.
Cleve studied Ling Soo carefully, as the Chinese leader began to speak. There was nothing in the squat man’s bearing, or in his speech, that betokened menace. On the contrary, Ling Soo was friendly. In fact, he seemed almost chiding; and it was that manner that lulled Cleve into believing that all was well.
“YOU have been here once,” remarked Ling Soo. “Once is not often. That is why I have sought you, tonight. It is well that we are friends. It would be better if our friendship should increase.”
Cleve nodded in agreement.
“There is a reason,” declared Ling Soo, “why I seek the better acquaintance of my American friends who have seen the light of the Wu-Fan.
“Our great order needs the advice of such friends. For, though the Wu-Fan is of China, its purpose lies in America. Great power will come to those who believe with the Wu-Fan. Would you like to share that power?”
The proposition was suggested in a mild, friendly tone. Cleve, thinking keenly, believed that he understood Ling Soo’s inference.
It was a positive fact that Stephen Laird had been an agent of the Wu-Fan. Laird had been slain — and Cleve inclined, from experience, to the theory that the Tiger Tong had been responsible.
Despite the fact that sinister Foy had wielded a knife with which he had sought Cleve’s life, the government agent discounted any murderous intentions on the part of the Wu-Fan.
It was logical that Ling Soo needed someone to take the place that death had caused Stephen Laird to vacate. If so, it would be to Cleve’s advantage to seize the opportunity. He put forward a question, which, if answered, would give him a clew to Ling Soo’s design.
“Does danger accompany that power?” Cleve asked.
“Yes,” responded Ling Soo quietly. “Danger threatens all who learn the inner secrets of the Wu-Fan. One can not expect power without danger.