UPSTAIRS, Tsing Chan had turned the knob of a closed door. He started the barrier moving inward; then stepped aside and bowed, as a sign that Kelroy was to enter.
The young man stepped into a small, plainly furnished bedroom. He stopped just beyond the threshold.
Tsing Chan, still in the hallway, drew the door shut, leaving the visitor alone in the little room.
David Kelroy did not hear the click of the closing door. His whole attention was directed elsewhere, toward a cot against the farther wall.
Upon that bed lay the strangest figure that he had ever seen, the shape of a wizened, parchment-faced Chinaman who looked to be a hundred years of age.
Scrawny hands were yellow upon the surface of the bedspread. The withered face, though yellow likewise, had attained a pallor that was indicative of death. As David Kelroy approached, step by step, he became positive that the ancient Chinaman was dead.
Soberly, Kelroy stood above the corpselike form, studying the closed, tight eyelids. He felt the chill that frequently comes to one who stands in the presence of death. He was fixed to the spot, staring at that scrawny, worn-out body from which all semblance of life had departed.
Then came horror; an emotion more vivid than the awe of death. As Kelroy gazed, his own eyes seemed to produce a life-giving power.
Ku Luan’s eyelids flickered; they opened, to reveal a glassy stare. Parched lips wavered; at first they delivered only a gasp. Then came crackly tones, as though a voice from within the corpse was speaking:
“I am Ku Luan.”
DAVID KELROY felt his own hands twitch nervously as his ears heard the statement. Rigid, he could only stare, in hopeless disbelief; yet the words that reached him implanted themselves within his brain.
“I awaited your coming.” Ku Luan’s voice was mechanical. “I saw the approach of death. I accepted death that I might rest. I have saved life’s final precious moments, that I might speak to you.”
Kelroy nodded. Feebly, he tried to speak his understanding. Ku Luan’s ears must have detected the incoherent attempt, for the old man’s voice proceeded with its crackle.
“I am of old China,” declared the living dead man. “When I came from China, I brought wealth. My treasure is safe. I kept it for my nephew, who dwells in Peking. I believed him to be one who sought to restore old China.”
A pause. Thin eyelids closed; then reopened.
“My nephew, Tyan Li, has failed my trust,” resumed Ku Luan. “The treasure shall not be his. It shall be yours, David Kelroy, because your father and I were friends. To you shall belong the message that I prepared for my traitorous nephew, Tyan Li.”
Pausing again, Ku Luan tried to raise one withered hand. At last succeeding, he pointed to a cabinet at the foot of the cot.
David Kelroy managed motion of his own. He went to the cabinet and drew open a small drawer which Ku Luan had apparently indicated. Within the drawer, he found an iron ring, from which dangled six huge brass keys, all of more than eight inches in length.
Though Ku Luan’s fixed eyes had remained upward, the Chinaman’s ears could catch the jangle of the brass. As Kelroy approached with the keys, Ku Luan spoke again.
“Go to my storeroom,” ordered Ku Luan. “Use one key to enter. Use another to unlock the great iron chest. Remove the teakwood box that bears the silver dragon. Within the teakwood box you will find my message to Tyan Li. The message which belongs to you instead.
“One man alone was destined to aid the carrier of that message. The destined man was Tobias Eldreth, whom I knew when he lived in Peking. Tobias Eldreth is dead; but he has grandsons. They can aid in his stead. Take the teakwood box to them.
“Tell my steward, Tsing Chan, to show you the way to the storeroom. Go there alone. Do not return within these walls once you have gained the teakwood box. Tell no one — not even Tsing Chan — why you are going to the storeroom. Say only that it is my order.
“That is all. Yet I still have strength of life. Call Tsing Chan, that I may speak of matters which concern him only. Go. Call Tsing Chan. He awaits outside this room.”
Kelroy thrust the brass keys into his pocket. He went to the closed door and opened it. He saw Tsing Chan, standing with bowed head. Kelroy beckoned to the steward. Tsing Chan entered the bedroom and approached his master.
Again, Kelroy heard Ku Luan speak, this time in Chinese. Knowing the language, Kelroy quickly closed the door and remained in the outside hall, that he might not be a party to this conversation.
MINUTES passed. The door opened. Kelroy faced Tsing Chan. The Chinese steward motioned.
Kelroy entered the bedroom, with Tsing Chan, he approached Ku Luan’s cot. The ancient man’s eyes were still open; his lips were moving slightly.
As the watchers stood attentive, the lip motion ceased. A strange sightlessness disturbed the glassy eyes.
What little light they had held departed.
Tsing Chan stood in solemn silence; David Kelroy likewise. Chinese and American, both were paying tribute to the memory of one Ku Luan.
For that last departing gleam had left no doubt in their individual minds. Unspeaking, both men had recognized that Ku Luan’s ordeal had ended.
The living dead man was no more. The Shadow, when he came in the guise of Doctor Roy Tam, would be too late to hold speech with Ku Luan.
CHAPTER V. THE SHADOW’S MOVE
AT the very minute when death had gained its reign within the home of Ku Luan, two striding figures were approaching that secluded house.
One was The Shadow, in his guise of Doctor Roy Tam. His companion was Doctor Doi Yan, the San Francisco physician who had called Doctor Tam in consultation on the case of Ku Luan. They had met at the Sun Kew Restaurant; but not at nine o’clock. Doctor Doi Yan had been late.
The pair were nearing a lighted corner where a pagoda-topped building loomed like an ancient landmark.
Shifting a medical bag from right hand to his left, the Chinese physician pointed to the entrance of a blackened street.
“We turn here,” he stated, in English. “As I told you, Doctor Tam, the walk has proven a short one. It was better to come this way, on foot, than by cab from Grant Avenue, as we did the other times.”
The Shadow acknowledged, using the careful English that characterized Doctor Tam’s voice. As he spoke, however, he was looking carefully toward the corner. There he noted two Americans, engaged in quiet conversation beside the wall of the building that was topped with a pagoda roof.
The Shadow, like Doctor Doi Yan, was carrying what appeared to be a physician’s bag. He stopped as they neared the corner, in order to tighten a fastening on the grip. Doi Yan paused, farther on.
He scarcely noticed that his companion was quite close to the two Americans. Doctor Yan, moreover, did not hear the whispered word that issued from The Shadow’s slightly moving lips:
“Report.”
One of the Americans heard the word and stared momentarily. After a temporary hesitation, the American spoke in an undertone.
“Suspicious-looking men somewhere in neighborhood,” he informed. “They dived out of sight. All Americans. No Chinese.”
“Cover them,” whispered The Shadow.
“Taxi stopped at house,” added the speaker. “Time, nine seven. Unable to see who entered.”
“Report received.”
With the gait of Doctor Tam, The Shadow moved along to join Doi Yan. The man with whom The Shadow had spoken was his agent, Harry Vincent, who had traveled with him by plane from the East.
Harry’s companion was Miles Crofton, another agent regularly stationed in San Francisco.
“There is no need to hurry,” remarked Doi Yan, as he and The Shadow paced into the gloom of the side street. “When I last saw Ku Luan, his condition was unchanged. According to your own analysis, Doctor Tam, there should be no alteration in Ku Luan’s state until he himself exerts his will.”