Last night, Cleve had visited Ling Soo. If the leader of the Wu-Fan had nothing to conceal, Cleve’s visit would have meant nothing to him. Hence, Cleve would now be a nonentity.
But if Ling Soo chanced to be a dangerous plotter, it was a sure bet that the visit had aroused his suspicions. Therefore, he would be on the lookout for Cleve Branch.
Here, in Chinatown, Cleve was in the enemy’s territory. He knew well that Ling Soo would know of his presence. Being aware of it, Ling Soo would be sure to have his henchmen on the trail.
That was what Cleve wanted. For he had an uncanny ability when it came to spotting hidden watchers. He had proven this tonight, when he had seen that shadow. Only a shadow — but a shadow meant a man in the background.
Cleve was thoughtful as he again wended his way along a slanting thoroughfare of Chinatown. His regular formula called for a new step now. It was time to turn the tables on those who were watching him — to watch them instead.
Ordinarily, Cleve would have waited longer, in hopes of gaining a complete knowledge of unknown watchers. But here, in Chinatown, the streets seemed peopled with unseen eyes. Latticed windows were suspicious. Alleyways seemed made for lurkers. Even the smiling shopkeepers must be taken into consideration.
So Cleve decided to lose no time. He would investigate the Wu-Fan; and before he began, he would gain the additional information he required, from one qualified to know.
TURNING into a side street, as though at random, Cleve Branch strolled by a little restaurant. He gazed curiously at the sign above the doorway. There, surrounded by Chinese characters, he read the words:
HOANG-HO CAFE.
The place seemed picturesque. Cleve entered. He ascended a flight of stairs, and found himself in a little room that had entrances in each of its four walls. Patrons could enter it from all quarters.
Cleve glanced at the menu. He chose an item that suited his taste. When a waiter approached, Cleve indicated his choice, with the point of a lead pencil that he had taken from his pocket.
Beneath the printed item, Cleve carelessly traced a little wavy line. The waiter bowed and left to get the order.
In leisurely fashion, Cleve consumed the Chinese dish. He looked about the restaurant as he ate. There were only Chinese here, and none of them appeared to pay any attention to the American.
Cleve’s eyes were not only on the patrons. At times, his gaze roamed along the floors and up the walls. For Cleve had hopes that here, as before, he might observe a shadow.
His wily search was in vain. The waiter came with a check. Cleve drew some coins from his pocket, and dropped them with a clink. The waiter made change; then walked toward the doorway at the right.
Cleve waited until the man was out of sight. Then he strolled from his table, and followed the same path that the waiter had taken.
He reached a little entry at the head of a flight of stairs. A quick glance showed him an open doorway at the left. Cleve stepped through the opening, and the door slid shut behind him.
Simultaneously, a light appeared in the darkness. It disclosed a short passageway, with a closed door at the end. Cleve stopped before the door, and tapped softly. The door slid open, and he stepped into a room that was furnished like an office.
The room had no windows. A Chinaman attired in American clothes was seated by a desk.
Approaching this individual, Cleve Branch drew back his coat and showed the glimmer of his badge. The Chinaman pointed to a chair on the other side of the desk. In another moment, Cleve was seated there.
He had never before seen this Chinaman, but Cleve knew who he was. Moy Chen, Chinese merchant, was the secret undercover man to whom all Bureau of Investigation agents could look for assistance when in San Francisco.
“Branch,” said Cleve quietly, by way of introduction. “Investigating the Wu-Fan and its head, Ling Soo.”
Moy Chen nodded solemnly.
“Met Ling Soo last night,” continued Cleve. “Received report on him from Joseph Darley of the Civilian Committee.”
Drawing the report from his pocket, Cleve passed it across the table to Moy Chen. The Chinaman studied the papers, slowly and solemnly, his brow wrinkling as he read.
It was several minutes before he had completed his survey. Then he passed the report back to its owner and nodded, while he blinked in owl fashion.
“Can you add to it?” questioned Cleve.
Moy Chen shook his head as solemnly as he had nodded it. Then, for the first time, he spoke.
“THIS is quite complete,” he declared, in slow, short syllables. “I can tell you nothing more.”
“You know of the Wu-Fan?”
“Of course. I have been told of it.”
“But you have never sought to join?”
“No. The tongs would not permit. I must not oppose the tongs. I learn much through them.”
“I understand,” said Cleve. “Well, Moy Chen, I’m not satisfied with this report. I want to see the Wu-Fan at first hand, you understand? It’s spreading all over the country, and I’m here to take a good look at its headquarters. How would you suggest I go about it?”
Moy Chen considered the question thoughtfully. His blinking eyes and round face showed perplexity. Cleve offered a suggestion.
“A man named Stephen Laird was killed,” he said. “He was an American. He was also a member of the Wu-Fan. Can you explain that?”
“Yes,” said Moy Chen simply. “As you have said, Ling Soo has men who travel far. They go many places for him. They see many people who are Chinese, and who are with the Wu-Fan. Americans may travel with more ease than may Chinese. That is why Ling Soo can use Americans.”
“What are the qualifications?”
“I do not know; but I can make a suppose” — Moy Chen was slipping into a trace of pidgin English. “If an American man should seek to be with the Wu-Fan, he could do so. I think I could tell him how.”
“Give me your idea, Moy Chen.”
“There are certain Chinese who are easy friends for an American man to make. If that American man should be full of interest in what they say, he would hear from them in the Wu-Fan. If he should listen well, and speak high of it, they would want him to be with the Wu-Fan, too.”
“Great!” exclaimed Cleve. “That’s my ticket, Moy Chen. If I join the Wu-Fan, I’ll have the real slant on the whole crew. But I won’t be Branch when I meet that outfit.”
“You must be someone else,” agreed Moy Chen.
“And you are the man to see that I am,” returned Cleve, knowingly.
“When do you wish to do this?” asked Moy Chen.
“As soon as possible,” answered Cleve.
“As soon as possible,” mused the Chinaman. “As soon as possible. That is now. You shall be someone else — now.”
Rising slowly, he went across the room with short, toddling steps. He beckoned to Cleve to follow.
Through a door they went, into a side room. From a large chest, Moy Chen removed well-pressed clothes and a box of make-up materials.
The transformation began. Cleve submitted himself to Moy Chen’s art. The Chinese undercover man was a master in the creation of disguise. With subtle touches here and there, he seemed to change the contour of his subject’s face.
When Cleve had donned the other clothes, he examined himself in the mirror at the side of the room.
He found himself staring at a face that he could never have recognized as his own. It had taken on a swarthy hue. The cheeks seemed less full. Even the square chin had lost its challenge. Deftly, Moy Chen had added patches of eyebrows that had effected the most noticeable change.
Rubbing his hand over his face, Cleve was pleased to find that his new visage would stand the test. He had heard of Moy Chen’s ability in forming new features. He had witnessed it now, in himself.