“You’re right,” admitted Vincent. “I’ll remember them.”
“You will excuse me for a while,” requested Fellows. “Make yourself at home, while I attend to a few business matters.”
Vincent stared from the window and watched the crowds on the streets below, while Fellows used the telephone to discuss insurance with various clients.
This whole experience was a puzzle to Vincent, and he wondered what was next in store for him. He still felt that the Chinese disk which lay on Fellows’ desk was a most important item in whatever was developing.
The minutes went by, and Vincent waited patiently. He was beginning to realize that the ability to be patient was one of the most important duties expected of him.
He glanced at his watch: it registered half past eleven, and he wondered if the reply to Fellows’ message would come as soon as the chubby insurance broker expected it.
The stenographer had returned at least a half an hour before; and the door to the outer room was open.
A messenger boy entered the outer office, bearing an envelope. The stenographer signed for it and brought it in to Fellows’s desk. The insurance man was busy at the phone, and paid no attention to the envelope for five minutes. Then he rose leisurely and closed the door to the outer office.
He picked up the envelope, unfolded a letter, and stood by the window reading, while Vincent watched him curiously. The chubby man had donned his spectacles, but when he had finished his perusal of the letter, he removed his glasses and looked at Vincent.
“I have an explanation for you,” he said. “I am instructed to inform you regarding certain matters which have puzzled you. First, we will discuss the Chinese disk, and the man named Scanlon.
“Scanlon came from San Francisco. He was to take the disk to a Chinese named Wang Foo, to-day, at three o’clock. You are to go in Scanlon’s place.
“You will say nothing to Wang Foo. Simply show him the disk, and he will give you a sealed package. You will bring that package here to me.
“Two men besides Scanlon knew the purpose of that disk. One of them was Steve Cronin. He has left New York. The other, a gangster called Croaker, was killed last night. Somehow, his associates learned that he had double-crossed them. They murdered him, and he had no opportunity to mention the matter of the Chinese disk, even if he had intended to do so.
“In order that your journey may be safe, you will enter a taxicab at the corner of Forty-fifth and Broadway at exactly two o’clock this afternoon. It will be a green cab, and you will recognize it by the chauffeur, who will be wearing a cap with a green band.
“The cab will carry you to a Chinese tea shop. Enter and pass through to the rear. Ask to see Wang Foo. Upon leaving the tea shop with the package, you will find the same cab awaiting you. It will bring you back to the corner of Forty-fifth Street and Broadway. From there, you must come here immediately.”
“What instructions shall I give the cab driver?” questioned Vincent.
“Any that you please,” replied Fellows. “He will simply follow the orders that he has already received.”
The insurance broker picked up the disk and gave it to Vincent, who replaced it in his vest pocket. Fellows opened the door, conducted Vincent through the outer office.
“Sorry I can’t have lunch with you, Vincent,” said the insurance broker. “I’ll see you later. Good-by, old chap.”
In his hand, Fellows still held the mysterious letter; but up to this moment, Vincent had had no opportunity to see its written side. Now, as the door was closing, something happened that caused Vincent to stand in the hallway, gaping in astonishment.
Fellows had carelessly turned his hand so that the written side of the letter was directly toward Vincent’s eyes. And as the young man had unconsciously sought to scrutinize the writing, he had been amazed to observe that the letter was a blank sheet of paper!
CHAPTER VIII
THE TEA SHOP OF WANG FOO
THE taxicab was rolling through the side streets of Manhattan. Harry Vincent wondered where it was carrying him. For half an hour the driver had been following a circling, twisting course that seemed to lead nowhere.
Vincent had hailed the cab at the stroke of two o’clock. He had recognized the green band on the driver’s hat. He had given instructions to be taken to the Grand Central Station, and the cab driver had not followed his orders. That was proof enough that Vincent was in the right cab.
He had looked for the familiar card that is in every New York cab, showing the driver’s picture and his name. There was no such card in this cab. It had evidently been removed.
He had found himself wondering who the driver might be. Another agent of The Shadow? Perhaps it was The Shadow himself! The man was wearing a coat with a large collar, and the top of the coat had been turned up so that only the tip of his nose was in view.
Whoever the man might be, he was familiar with the city, for the cab had made so many turns and twists that Vincent had given up wondering where he might be.
He knew, though, that the driver was not trying to confuse him; for any street-corner sign might give the correct location. It was obvious that the man at the wheel was making sure that no car was following the cab.
The Chinese disk was still safely embedded in Vincent’s pocket. He felt the tiny talisman and speculated upon its importance. By merely showing this, he was to receive a package - a package which he must bring back to Fellows, the insurance broker.
That would be easy. He could not see any danger impending. Yet the mysterious course of the cab indicated that the mission might not be a safe one.
Glancing at his watch, Vincent noted that it was nearly three o’clock. That was the hour of his appointment with Wang Foo - the appointment he was to keep in place of the murdered Scanlon. Evidently the dead shoe salesman was not known to the Chinese tea merchant. The disk alone would be accepted as his badge of identity.
Finally the cab pulled up in front of a squalid building on the edge of Chinatown. The driver opened the door, and presented Vincent with a ticket. Vincent paid the bill; this was evidently intended as a natural procedure to dismiss the suspicions of any watchers on the street.
The cab pulled away before Vincent had an opportunity to note the driver’s face, which was still hidden by his coat collar.
The building was three stories high. There were plate-glass windows in the front; and they were piled with tea boxes in disorderly arrangement. The windows were covered with Chinese characters, but over the door appeared in English letters the name “Wang Foo.”
Vincent entered and found himself in a combination sales-and-storage room. There was a counter at the right, and piles of boxes at the left. The room was extremely narrow, but very long. It was dirty and uninviting, dimly lit by two gas jets hung from the ceiling.
A Chinaman behind the counter eyed Vincent curiously, but did not speak.
Vincent walked nonchalantly through the room. There was a solid wall at the back, but he paid no attention to that fact until he had arrived at the end of the room. Then he discovered a door, to the right, partly obscured by piles of tea boxes. He tried the door, but found it locked.
The Chinaman behind the counter had silently followed him through the room. Vincent was slightly startled as the Celestial plucked his sleeve and spoke In pidgin English.
“Who you wanee see?”
“Wang Foo.”
“Not home.”
“Oh, but he is.”
The Chinaman shook his head.
Vincent became commanding.
“You tell Wang Foo I want to see him.”
“Not home,” replied the Chinaman. “I tellee you not home.”
“I have come a long way - from California,” said Vincent meaningly.
The Chinaman quickly nodded at Vincent’s last words.