The Shadow was carrying a bag. He handed it to Yat Soon, who nodded and spoke.
“It is wise,” declared the arbiter, “that Kao Dwin should come for this. Kao Dwin is known to those of Chinatown. None would be suspicious seeing him leave the abode of Yat Soon. None would be so unwise to follow or molest Yat Soon’s servant.
“One who is unknown must be cautious.” Yat Soon’s tone was significant as he eyed The Shadow. “As one unknown, you must leave this place as secretly as you came. Here is your token,” — he handed The Shadow a curious signet ring that bore a Chinese character — “and with it, you can meet Kao Dwin. The rear door of his closed shop is open. Enter there; when challenged, speak the name of Yat Soon; then show the token.”
Yat Soon pressed a switch; a panel opened in the outer wall. The Shadow left by this exit and chose a threading course that led him to the street. His course did not lead him through the entrance by which he had come to see Yat Soon. Instead, it brought him to a guarded portal that was opened by a solemn, bowing Mongol.
Stepping from a short blind alley, The Shadow joined Chinamen who were passing back and forth along the street. He was not far from the chief corner of Mott and Pell; he avoided that crossing and picked a less frequented thoroughfare. Yet in his brief passage, The Shadow had noted the sidelong looks of various Chinese.
Rumor was rife here in Chinatown. Many eyes were suspicious; and although none took The Shadow for other than a Chinaman, there were those who picked him as a stranger. As on that night when Raymond Roucard had left Shan Kwan’s, there were men of this quarter who studied the yellow face of the stranger from Yat Soon’s.
High-pitched voices babbled from a group that The Shadow passed. Men were in argument; their words — even to one who knew Chinese — seemed insignificant. Yet that short outcry could well have been a signal for men beyond. The Shadow heard the dispute; turning into a narrow darkened street, he crossed his hands against his tunic and lowered his head.
Both actions were typical of a Chinaman; The Shadow used them to render his way obscure. Yet even with such natural action, he was at a disadvantage in his present garb. His course became shifty, but not elusive, as it would have been had he retained his cloak of black.
Changing pace: first quick, then slow, The Shadow trekked along the gloomy street. He saw shady figures passing; others loitering. He reached the entrance of an alleyway. There he paused suddenly; then performed a sudden, twisting leap that carried him backward and half across the street.
The quick move was timely. From a forward-springing form had come an upswung arm. A long knife slithered through the haze. Its whizzing blade skimmed inches wide of its mark — that Chinese figure that was The Shadow. An assassin had thrust from darkness, only to miss.
AS the blade point clashed against a brick wall, The Shadow whirled about. His yellow-stained hands flashed out from beneath his jacket. His turn around was another timely move. A trio of murderous Chinese were springing from a doorway, with knives in hand that they hoped to drive into the back of the man whom their fellow thug had missed.
Close together, these rogues kept tight grip on their dirks, intending to down their victim by a mass attack. A dozen feet separated them from The Shadow; they were hissing their belief of triumph as they plunged forward. But they were met by stabs that came quicker than any knife thrust.
Automatics boomed a greeting. Tongues of flame were withering. One attacker staggered; his cry told that he had been clipped. The second sprawled headlong at The Shadow’s feet. The third surged on, despite the close-ranged blast that should have stopped him. He thrust his knife mechanically; but The Shadow sidestepped the stroke. The Chinaman’s hurtling body rammed The Shadow’s shoulder. Both rolled to the curb.
The knife-flinger from the alley had drawn another blade. As he poised to hurl it, an automatic flashed quick shots from the paving. Wildly, the would-be assassin dived back into the alley. Though The Shadow had gained no time for proper aim, his bullets made the foe show preference for flight.
The man who had staggered was scrambling away along the street, clutching a wounded arm. The one who had fallen at The Shadow’s feet was motionless; he had driven too deep into the barrage from The Shadow’s guns. The third man, though he had taken greater brunt, was still stirring as The Shadow rose. Mortally wounded, the fellow was babbling phrases in Chinese.
Stooping, The Shadow stared into glassy eyes. He made sharp queries; his fierce gaze forced answers from the dying assassin’s lips. Choppy though the sentences were, The Shadow caught odd words from the babble. He demanded further utterance. The Chinaman’s eyes narrowed; his lips tightened.
The police whistles were shrilling. Shouts were coming from the ends of the street. Yet The Shadow persisted in his effort to make the Chinaman talk. Glazed eyes opened. Weakly, wearily, the foeman talked, as if his resistance had fully sagged. The Shadow had demanded his identity. This time the Chinaman spoke in English.
“Toian!” he gasped his name. “Me — Toian! Toian Soi! Doctor tell me — tell me to come here. Doctor Tam — Doctor Roy Tam—”
Nightsticks were clattering on sidewalks. Bluecoats, having signaled their companions, were charging into the gloomy street. Now whistles were shrilling; footsteps were pounding closer, on the run. Toian Soi could gasp no longer. His lips had straightened, closed forever.
Rising, The Shadow sprang away from the man’s body. A gleaming flashlight showed his yellowed face. Arriving police gave shouts for him to stop. Instead, The Shadow dashed across the street, into the alley opposite. Revolvers barked; their fire came too late to stop that fleeing figure.
HOURS later, patrolmen still made search of this terrain. The pals of Toian Soi had escaped before their advent; they were looking only for a tall, limber Chinaman who had escaped their closing cordon. They believed that he, too, must be a member of the band.
The police found no sign of their quarry, even though they patrolled far and searched in many places. Some of them passed through the street in front of Kao Dwin’s closed curio shop. It was there that the one they sought saw them, without their knowledge.
The Shadow had completed his journey, unchallenged and unfollowed. Through the slits of closed windows, he was keeping vigil with Kao Dwin, waiting for the law to end its futile search. For The Shadow believed it possible that another was lingering also, ready to enter that street once the police were gone.
The Shadow was on the lookout for Doctor Roy Tam. He was maintaining vigil for the very man who had trapped his agents, even though he did not yet know of the part that Doctor Tam had played. In a sense, however, the game had been evened. Doctor Tam, still absent, remained unaware that his prisoners were gone.
The Shadow, as the hunter, was watching for a secret trapper who had already lost his prey!
CHAPTER XV
THE MANDARIN’S GUESTS
HARRY VINCENT opened his eyes and blinked in bewilderment. He was conscious of strange surroundings and the scene seemed hazy. Walls of red and gold vied in visual conflict beneath mellow light. Staring across the room, Harry saw Cliff Marsland stirring upon a couch. Cliff, too, was waking.
Glancing about amid the subdued glow, Harry found his thoughts reverting to last night’s episode. He remembered the capture at the hands of Doctor Roy Tam; he recalled the matted floor of the pitch-dark room. Then he recollected the advent of Noy Dow and Loy Ming; the light that the man had turned on to reveal a barren room.
Could this be the same place, transformed? This room was square; but its walls were gayly colored. It had no windows; only a single door, yet that was faced with brass instead of wood. The floor was thickly tufted, not bare except for mats which served as resting places. As for the mats themselves, they had changed into luxurious couches, one for each of the two occupants.