Click! The light was on. Its sudden glare revealed the face from the dark — the yellow, leering face whose peering eyes were seeking the helpless form of the man in the bed.
The knife blade gleamed beside that sinister countenance. But it remained suspended — motionless.
The bed was empty! Not only empty, but the covers were unturned.
Henry Arnaud was not there!
THE lean, leering face of the Chinaman became a hideous, glaring monstrosity. The stooping man wheeled quickly, looking for his prey.
With the lamp still lighted, he dropped beside the bed, and his peering eyes glared beneath. Arnaud was not hiding there.
Writhing serpentlike along the floor, the man approached the wardrobe — the only spot in the lighted room that afforded a hiding place.
The big door of the upright chest was latched — a sign that no one could be within. But the Chinaman intended to make sure. He was willing to rely upon his blade, even though his intended victim might be on the alert.
His clawlike hand clutched the little knob of the wardrobe. It drew the door open, and the Chinaman leaped into the space behind it, his knife blade launching for a thrust.
That deadly arm stopped midway. The wardrobe, like the bed, was empty!
Revolting though the yellow face had become, the look of perplexity now upon it was ludicrous. The man stood momentarily thwarted, but his bewilderment did not last. He sprang back across the room and extinguished the table lamp.
The sinister face from the dark had returned to the dark. But those insidious eyes were still searching. They peered from the front window of the room.
The head extended through the opening, and turned downward toward the street below, a drop of sixty feet. It appeared again at the side window. Here, too, it inspected a sheer drop of more than sixty feet.
The wicked face turned its gaze toward the distant glow of Chinatown. There, the sign of the Mukden Theater still displayed its roving change of lights. But the luminous circle at the top now presented a blank center. The two glaring spots of green had disappeared.
The Chinaman turned his eyes back into the room. His hands were buried against his body. The knife was there, waiting.
Ten minutes went by; then the crouching figure went back across the room and tiptoed to the other side of the hall. The door of 806 was closed and locked. But the tricked assassin waited, wondering.
Within the room, the dim glare of the distant lights was totally obscured by a black shadow in the window. Henry Arnaud had returned. He went noiselessly to his suitcase and took it with him to the window. He affixed the handle of the bag to a thin, suspended rope.
His body — virtually invisible — swung from the window. Long arms, reaching upward gripped a protruding row of bricks below the roof. With amazing agility, the man ascended and drew himself to safety. His bag came, up as he pulled the slender rope.
Across the roof he strode, toward the rear of the hotel. He slid down a wall to a lower building. His form seemed to dwindle away and disappear. His further descent was an action unseen.
Henry Arnaud had gone. He did not reappear. But in his stead, a tall, black-clad man arrived at the end of a narrow street, a block from the Aldebaran Hotel.
Stooping in the gloom, he compressed his suitcase into a small, compact bundle that disappeared beneath the flowing cloak that he wore. From beneath his slouch hat, this man peered forward with shrewd, gleaming eyes.
There, in the silence, hidden lips laughed, and their low, throbbing mockery made an eerie sound on the night air.
In the guise of Henry Arnaud, The Shadow had come to San Francisco! The Shadow — dread avenger, who menaced evildoers of the East — had come to the Pacific coast!
What was his purpose here? Did it concern the strange death of Stephen Laird? Had that event declared the existence of criminal hands whose actions could be ended only by the power of this one man who waged relentless war on evil?
Only The Shadow knew! Tonight he had thwarted the first of his hidden enemies. He had walked into a trap. He had tricked the assassin, the man whose hideous face had come from the dark.
Back in the hotel, that evil face was still on watch — its wicked eyes staring across the hall toward a room that was deserted.
The Shadow, strange wizard of the night, had learned why Stephen Laird had occupied that room. With that knowledge gained, The Shadow was gone. Only the echo of a weird, mocking laugh remained.
CHAPTER III
A MIDNIGHT CONFERENCE
TWO men were seated in the living room of an elegantly furnished apartment. One, the host, was attired in evening clothes. He was a man about fifty years of age.
His gray hair gave him a firm dignity. His eyes, mild and kindly, showed passivity, but with it, human understanding.
The visitor, plainly dressed, was about fifteen years younger. He had an air of assurance, and his chin portrayed the man of action. But now he possessed a patient attitude that seemed at odds with his natural inclinations.
It was he who was speaking; and he was choosing his words as he uttered them.
“I have come to you, Mr. Darley,” he said, “because you are a man who keeps confidence. You may be surprised by my visit. You may wonder what it is about. But you will quickly understand.
“I told you that my work concerned the Civilian Committee of San Francisco, of which you are the head; but I must explain that it is also of a nature that will make it a private matter between you and myself.”
Joseph Darley nodded slowly. He knew that this was an important meeting. He had received a telephone call that afternoon, from this man, who called himself Cleve Branch. Darley had arranged the appointment for midnight.
As chairman of the Civilian Committee, Darley held a most important executive position, and special meetings of this type were not foreign to his work. Therefore, he was definite in his reply.
“Whatever your purpose,” he said, “you can rely fully upon my keeping it confidential, Mr. Branch. I understand that you seek my cooperation in a certain enterprise. Whether or not I can give that cooperation, you have my absolute promise that whatever you may tell me shall reach no other person.”
“Very well,” said Branch. “My work, Mr. Darley, is in behalf of the Bureau of Investigation, Department of Justice of the United States government.
Darley leaned forward in his chair. He realized now the prime importance of this visit. On former occasions, Darley had supplied valuable data to the government. Now, he understood, his services were to be sought.
“I have come to San Francisco,” continued Branch, “to make a thorough investigation of the activities of the Wu-Fan — and to learn more about its organizer, the Chinaman, Ling Soo.”
DARLEY leaned back in his chair. He considered the ceiling thoughtfully. When he spoke, it was plain that his mind was reverting to facts which he knew well, and was seeking to give in detail.
“Do you know Ling Soo?” inquired Branch.
“Yes,” said Darley. “I do. More than that; I know him well. He is a man with a complex brain. A Chinese idealist; and being such, he is difficult for us to understand.”
“What of the Wu-Fan?” asked Branch.
“Before I answer that question,” replied Darley, with a thoughtful smile, “I should like to know what impression you have already formed of the Wu-Fan. I ask that, because you are probably acquainted with its activities outside of San Francisco.
“In other words, you may have seen something of the effects; while I believe myself to be acquainted with the cause. Shall we work back from effect to cause? Or from cause to effect?”