Hype Mellick had gone. Durling decided to stay around and see if Colin met other acquaintances.
PERHAPS the private dick would have learned more had he continued through to a side room beyond this thronged place, for it was in that direction that Hype Mellick had gone. The hard-faced man had not left the Club Monterey; instead, he was making a telephone call from a booth secluded in an alcove.
Hype was speaking in a low voice. He was talking to the very man whom he and Colin had discussed, namely, “Zack” Ruggey. Hype’s lips were wearing a pleased, yet ugly grin.
“Sure…” Hype uttered a guttural chuckle. “Eldreth passed me the dough… Not all of the five grand, but most of it… Yeah… He’s good for the rest…
“I’m sticking here a while… Sure… A good place for an alibi… Yeah, I’ll be in with Stew Randler… Don’t call me, though. I’ll see you later… Yeah. Tell the crew I’ll pay ‘em… Plenty…
“Sure… Stick close there… Something’s due to break and it may be tonight… Don’t worry about the lay. I’m telling you, it’s a set-up, once we find the bird we want… You’ll get the tip-off when he comes to Ku Luan’s… Yeah… Snatch him before he gets away from the place…”
Hype ended the call. He strolled out from the telephone booth. His grin gone, Hype was wearing a poker-faced expression. His was an air of confidence, a proof that he considered his plans to be close to the verge of success.
For Hype Mellick and his pal Zack Ruggey were engaged in crafty crime. While Hype was establishing an alibi, Zack was holding a paid crew in readiness.
Events were shaping to an evil climax. Strangely, the place where crime was pointing was none other than the abode of Ku Luan, the very house in Chinatown that The Shadow had chosen as his own objective!
CHAPTER IV. THE DEAD MAN SPEAKS
IT was exactly five minutes before nine o’clock when Hype Mellick made his secret telephone call to Zack Ruggey, from the Club Monterey. The precise time of eight fifty-five was registered elsewhere, in a place where many eyes could see it: namely, upon the huge clock dial of the San Francisco Ferry Terminal.
The fog was thickest near the waterfront, yet even its swirling density could not obscure the tower light above the ferry building. A great, glowing disk, its face marked by two clearly pointing hands, the giant clock shone like a perpetual beacon.
A young man was glancing upward at the big clock as he hurried across the car tracks at the foot of Market Street. Noting the time over his shoulder, he stopped and looked about to note trolley cars that were placarded with unfamiliar signs. He was a stranger to San Francisco, this chap, and that fact only added to the confusion of his hurry.
Lights from the ferry building showed the young man’s face to be a pleasant one. His eyes were friendly, although they carried a bewildered blink. His shocky, light-brown hair peeked from beneath his weather-streaked felt hat.
He made a somewhat gawky figure because of his tight-fitting topcoat; and his suitcase, which closely resembled an old-fashioned carpet bag, was a final touch that gave him a countrified appearance.
A cruising taxi rolled up. The driver spied the half-bewildered man and shouted “Cab!” The young fellow nodded. The driver stopped and opened the door.
The young man clambered aboard with his carpet bag; then, leaning through the front partition, he unfolded a slip of frayed paper and pointed to a written address.
“This is where I wish to go,” he told the driver, in a deliberate tone. “Make speed, my man, and I shall reimburse you for your effort.”
The driver gulped as he put the cab in motion. He was going to a spot deep in Chinatown, to a house on a steep-pitched street that was almost completely unfrequented by Americans. The taximan knew the address, but never before had he taken a passenger there.
As he sped along, the driver wondered. He had a half guess that the young man might be heading for a secret opium house. The neighborhood was just the sort to bide such a den.
THE trip from the ferry terminal to Chinatown was a rapid one. Looking in his mirror, the taximan could see his passenger’s face when he reached the glare of the quaint Oriental quarter.
The jehu observed a gleam upon the young man’s face; he noted eyes that sparkled, lips that formed a pleased smile as the passenger stared at signs in the Chinese language.
Then came the gloom of a narrow street. The driver jammed the brakes in front of a narrow, grimy-fronted house. The young man stepped from the cab and handed the cabby a two-dollar bill, with an order to keep the change. The driver stared, for the bill was one of an old series, the oversized type no longer issued.
With a glance at the gloomy street, the driver waited no longer. He shoved the cab into gear and headed his vehicle toward the lighted streets.
BACK on the gloomy street, the passenger from the cab had ascended a flight of old wooden steps, to ring a shaky doorbell. Half a minute passed; bolts clicked and the door opened inward. A suspicious, yellow face peered from the house. The young man bowed and spoke words in Chinese. He was admitted.
He entered a dull hall that showed an uncarpeted stairway leading to the second floor. Beyond the steps was a long, ground-floor passage.
The young man looked inquiringly at the suspicious-eyed Chinaman who had admitted him. He began to speak again, in Chinese; but paused when he heard footsteps creaking from the stairs.
Another Celestial was descending. Like the fellow who had answered the door, he had a suspicious gaze. Both Orientals were garbed alike, in black trousers and loose-fitting blouses of the same hue.
The average American would have taken them for brothers; but this visitor was quick to note their facial differences. More than that, he recognized at once that the man on the stairs was the more important of the two.
Again, the young American began to speak in Chinese. This time he addressed the second Chinaman.
The man on the stairs smiled blandly and raised his hand in interruption.
“We speak in English, here,” he declared, in an odd, choppy fashion. “My name is Tsing Chan. This man” — he paused to point to the Celestial who had opened the door — “is Wong Soy. What, may I ask, is your name, sir?”
“I am David Kelroy,” replied the American. “I arrived this evening from Shanghai.”
“You are the one that we expected,” asserted Tsing Chan, solemnly. “Do you have the token that Ku Luan sent you with his letter?”
“It is here.”
Kelroy produced a piece of crimson silk, a square that measured six inches in each direction. It was embroidered with gold design, the center of which formed the representation of a Chinese pagoda. Tsing Chan studied the cloth carefully. David Kelroy watched him.
Wong Soy was edging forward. A change had come upon the suspicious doorman’s expression. His slanty eyes showed eagerness, as they darted glances toward Kelroy.
It was plain that Wong Soy had known only that a visitor was expected; David Kelroy’s name was new to him, and so was that square of embroidered silk that Wong Soy seemed anxious to glimpse.
Tsing Chan was nodding his approval. Wong Soy drew back and stood beside the door. His flicker of eagerness had ended. He seemed indifferent to words that had passed between Tsing Chan and David Kelroy.
“It is well,” said Tsing Chan to the visitor. “Come. Ku Luan awaits you. I, his trusted steward, shall lead you to the room wherein he lies.”
Turning, Tsing Chan pointed to the stairs. David Kelroy ascended and the Chinese steward followed.
Wong Soy remained motionless beside the door. It was not until both had reached the second floor that the doorman indulged in an ugly, gloating leer.