Below lay obscurity. No one — not even so well-versed a Celestial as Tam — could guess the full extent of Chinatown. Years ago, before the fire, Chinatown had been termed a portion of the city of Canton, transported to San Francisco.
Destroyed by flames, old Chinatown had presumably passed into oblivion. The modern district, so it was claimed, consisted of an orderly array of shops and business houses. But Doctor Tam knew differently.
He could feel the pulse throbs of Chinatown. He knew that in a well-massed district of nearly twenty thousand population, there would remain the same desires, the same intrigues, the same feuds that had existed in an earlier day. Old catacombs had been unearthed; secret dens had been destroyed. In their place had grown others, hidden and unsuspected.
As proof, a map lay upon Tam’s desk. It showed Chinatown as a strange, unexplored terrain. Certain marks indicated hidden lairs that had been actually located and identified.
Other marks showed spots that could be described only by pure guesswork. Tam’s finger rested on one isolated sector. That represented the point where The Shadow had chosen to make a thorough search.
UPON the surface, that particular portion of Chinatown appeared serene. It was near the outer rim of the Chinese quarter; though quiet and little frequented, it boasted its array of well-kept shops. Above the lighted windows were darkened upper stories that seemed like ordinary dwelling quarters. Below were the gratings of basement windows.
Those, too, betokened living quarters in Chinatown; and in such apartments lay mystery. Those who preferred to be in hiding invariably preferred underground lodgings. That was why some windows were invariably dark.
Beneath one Oriental shop, lights showed through a grating. People passing could peer below to see two busy laundrymen at ceaseless labor over their ironing boards. They looked like coolies from some Hong Kong wharf, tired workers who were envious of boat dwellers who paddled freely in their sampans. Yet, like slaves, they had accepted their unfortunate lot.
Such was the surface appearance. Actually, there was a secret reason for the industry of the two laundrymen. Their shop was a blind, wherein they and others worked in shifts.
The doorway at the rear of it led to a grimy passage, through which the laundry was carried in and out.
That pathway formed another route as well. It was the main road to a hop joint, a windowless den that only known customers could enter.
A single light illuminated the inner passage. Beyond the range of glow were dark depths. At present, no Chinamen were in the narrow hallway; hence no one saw the strange phenomenon that occurred there.
Blackness came from blackness. It crossed the lighted area and faded into dark. During its gliding course, that shape became the figure of a being cloaked in black.
The Shadow had set forth as a bespectacled Chinaman; with him he had carried folded, well-packed garments. He had used his guise of black to pass by various barriers. Already, he had scoured two thirds of the dangerous area which troubled Doctor Tam.
This time, he had passed the outside entrance to the hop joint, so stealthily that a guardian Mongol had failed to glimpse his shape. Still cloaked, he was through the inner portals.
He was nearing the doorway to the opium den itself. Shrouded in gloom, The Shadow paused. His gloved hand pressed a barrier inward. Keen eyes peered through the crack of a door.
Steps led to a room where light was hazy, because of blue-wreathed smoke. The atmosphere was pungent, almost overpowering. The smoke was curling from the slits of canvas curtains, that formed lines on both sides of the narrow room, oddly like the berths of a sleeping car.
UNTROUBLED by the overwhelming aroma, a tall, stoop-shouldered Chinaman was patrolling back and forth between the lines of tawdry curtains. He stopped with every other pace, to hover and listen outside the opium bunks.
The stooping Celestial turned. He stalked to the far end of the room. The Shadow saw him pass through a curtained doorway, evidently enroute to report to the Chinese manager of the secret den. Slowly, The Shadow pressed the door farther inward. He glided to the steps and closed the barrier behind him.
Among the curtained bunks, The Shadow had noticed one at the far end. It differed from the others; not only was its canvas more tightly drawn, but there was no sign of smoke from its interior.
With quick, silent stride, The Shadow reached the distant bunk. He found the lower corner of the curtain hooked in place. He loosened it and edged within. The bunk was empty.
The patrolling Mongol was returning. The Shadow could hear his passing footfalls. The reek from the opium pipes was stifling; yet The Shadow made no move to leave. Crouched against the edge of the bunk, he waited until the Chinaman had reached the other end of the long room.
The Shadow tested the bunk. It yielded to pressure, but only in an upward direction. Pressing, The Shadow found that the inner edge was on a hinge. The bunk swung up against the wall; square, blockish legs came with it. They brought the floor along with them. Below the bunk lay gaping blackness.
Sliding downward, The Shadow entered the yawning hole. His feet struck the rungs of a ladder.
Descending slowly, he drew the bunk down with him.
Cool air, refreshing despite its mustiness, was proof that The Shadow had found wide spaces underground. His feet pressed slimy stones when they reached the bottom.
A flashlight glimmered. It showed a wide passage, like a portion of a cellar. This was no secret tunnel, burrowed by Chinese workmen. It was an old wine cellar, a relic of the days before the fire. Wisely had crafty Chinese built new abodes on this border of their quarter.
By so doing, they had avoided the trouble of tunneling new catacombs to replace ones that had been filled. They had simply formed a flooring over the former cellars of fire-ruined American residences. The original owners had moved to some other section of San Francisco. The Chinese had adapted the basement ruins for their own use.
Should the opium den above be raided, it would begin business afterward, within this musty subcellar.
Such had been done before, despite the vigilance of the police.
Scheming Chinese, when they wished, could keep one jump ahead of the law. In the meantime, this underground room was empty, serving only as an emergency exit in time of trouble.
The Shadow found a passage that led toward the street. It did not interest him. His light was glimmering toward the low ceiling and it found the spot he wanted. He was directly beneath the stairway which he had used to descend into the opium den. The ceiling, however, was level. It did not conform to the steps above.
The Shadow reached up and worked upon the tight-fitting boards. They loosened; with a sudden click, a long strip of the ceiling swung downward on a hinge. Its upper surface was crossed by wooden cleats, that served as ladder rungs.
The Shadow went upward; he reached a three-foot space between the lower ceiling and the upper. It was wide enough to turn around in. The Shadow swung about and drew upon a cleat to bring the hinged ceiling up into its place.
FEET foremost, The Shadow wormed his way ahead. His flashlight was extinguished; in the darkness, his legs found a new opening. This time, the downward space was not provided with a ladder.
Sliding from the edge, The Shadow reached a stone floor only four feet below. Stooping, he gained steps. His flashlight glimmered downward. He had come to the subcellar of another forgotten building.
The glow of the flashlight revealed a closed door in the far wall of a rectangular room. As he spied the barrier, The Shadow also spotted a living guardian, who had shifted away from the door at first notice of the flashlight’s glimmer.