THE office of Loy Rook was located in one of the newer buildings of Chinatown. There was nothing Oriental about it. It might have been the office of any American business man. For Loy Rook handled his affairs in Occidental fashion.
He was a powerful figure among the Chinese. He stood well with all the tong leaders, and pursued his business unmolested. He affected American attire and mannerisms.
Loy Rook was the owner of several Chinese restaurants and shops. His office was on the second floor of the building, beneath which was a tea shop. There were living quarters on the second floor, where certain trusted employees roomed in comfortable surroundings.
Loy Rook’s own suite was on the third floor. It was furnished in Chinese style. Thus Loy Rook stepped downstairs from a home that might have been in Peiping, and entered an office that was obviously in New York.
Loy Rook was in his office to-day — the day after gangdom had undergone its shake-up. He was going over certain important affairs, and he paused from consideration of a pile of papers to call his secretary.
“Can you come here a moment, Vincent?” he said.
Harry Vincent arose from a desk in the corner. He approached Loy Rook and helped him sort the papers. The old Chinaman looked on admiringly. This man was the first good secretary he had ever had.
The gods had been wise when they had prompted Ching Foo, Loy Rook’s very good friend, to recommend this secretary. Loy Rook was always ready to hire a new man. He wanted one who liked to work; whose salary demands were low; and who was willing to live on the second floor of this building.
Harry Vincent had answered all those demands.
“Wait a minute,” said Loy Rook, in his queerly enunciated English. “Do not go back to work just yet. Let us talk.”
Harry resumed his seat and looked at the old, bespectacled Mongolian.
“You like it here?” questioned Loy Rook.
“I find it very pleasant.”
“That is good. You would like to travel to China, perhaps?”
“I prefer New York, but—” Harry paused.
“Not now,” said Loy Rook hastily, “not for a long time yet, perhaps. But I have much to do with China. You know that, from the work you have done for me. I will need, some day, a man like yourself to go there.”
“I’ll be ready.”
“China is a wonderful country,” declared Loy Rook. “A very wonderful place. When I, Loy Rook, say that, it is because I understand. These Chinese in New York — they do not know their native land! When they wish to find out how things are done in China, where do they come? To Loy Rook!”
Harry nodded.
“That is why I tell you about my Chinese friends. They may ask me many things, but that I do not tell them. I have my own reasons for that. But when I speak to you of them, and tell you what they ask, it is because I wish you to understand how the Chinese think. You see?”
Harry nodded again.
“‘There is none so wise as Loy Rook,’” said the Chinaman solemnly. “That is what the others say! Perhaps Ching Foo has said that also?”
“He said words to that effect.”
“Yet Loy Rook is not wise. He has simply remembered what he has seen. And he has seen much.”
This impersonal manner of talking was a familiar trait of Loy Rook’s. He always adopted it when speaking of himself.
“There is much that is known in China,” declared Loy Rook. “Much that is not known in New York” — he laughed — “but there are people here who think they know much. When there is something to be learned that is known not here, those who are wise come to Loy Rook.”
With this cryptic remark, the old Chinaman busied himself with the papers that Harry had arranged.
Harry went back to his work. He was thoughtful. At last, he was making progress, even though it was not much.
He was here at The Shadow’s bidding. For The Shadow was certain that through Loy Rook the key to Philip Farmington’s murder could be discovered. The poison — li-shun — was known only in Mongolia, of which Loy Rook was a native.
Loy Rook, ostensibly a prosperous merchant, loved money too well not to take part in shady dealings.
So Harry had been posted here, through some mysterious arrangement between The Shadow and Ching Foo, the man who was a friend of Loy Rook’s. Harry’s present job was to keep a watchful eye.
Ching Foo had suavely told him of Loy Rook’s peculiarities. One was that every visitor, no matter what his purpose might be, entered Loy Rook’s office to meet him. The old Mongolian was too canny to overdo his crooked work.
He made every one meet him in what appeared to be an aboveboard transaction. At least, that was supposed to be the case, so Harry had been informed. To date, he had seen nothing to the contrary.
So far, results were a blank. Loy Rook usually talked in English; occasionally he indulged in Chinese conversation with visitors. On those occasions, Harry was at a disadvantage; nevertheless, he was always alert in case something suspicious might take place.
IT was nearly noon when a young Chinaman entered the office and demanded to see Loy Rook. Harry’s employer was out. The visitor said that he would wait. There was something about the stranger’s manner that impressed Harry. This young Chinese — almost American in appearance — was restless. An unusual trait among his race, Harry decided.
Half an hour later, Loy Rook came in. He greeted his visitor, and Harry heard the name he called him — Luke Froy. They chatted in English — Loy Rook and Luke Froy — then they broke into a verbal display of Chinese.
In the midst of it, Harry’s alert ears caught a word that sounded very much like li-shun. Loy Rook wound up his conversation in English.
“Tonight,” he said. “You come back. See me then.”
“When?”
“Eleven o’clock. Not to office. You know where.”
Luke Froy nodded and departed. Loy Rook beckoned to Harry.
“Come with me,” he said.
He led the way to the back of the second floor, where Harry’s room was located. He stopped in front of a tall, double-sectional bookcase, which Harry had often noticed.
“Eleven o’clock, tonight,” said Loy Rook. “You do this.”
He pressed the bottom of the bookcase between the two sections. Each portion swung outward like a door, revealing separate flights of narrow steps— one leading up, the other down.
“This opens a hidden door below,” explained Loy Rook. “Then my friend Luke Froy may come in.
Remember — you say nothing — only watch!”
Harry nodded. He accompanied Loy Rook back to the office. As chance would have it, Loy Rook invited him to a Chinese lunch, so Harry had no opportunity at that time to send his information to Rutledge Mann.
When they returned to the office, Loy Rook remained there. The afternoon wore along. At last, Harry’s chance came. Loy Rook announced that he was going upstairs to his apartment.
The Chinaman might return at any time. It would be bad policy to leave the office. He picked up the telephone and dialed the number of Mann’s office. He heard Mann’s voice answer.
“Hello,” said Harry. “Did you mail that package that I left at the hotel?… Oh, I see. You gave it to the night clerk… Yes… Eleven dollars was the price… For the watch; the Chinaware cost fifteen. The man said he would take it back at the store on Fourteenth Street… What’s that? I can’t hear you… Oh, I see…
Good-by.”
The spaces in the conversation had been timed for imaginary replies. Actually, Rutledge Mann did not speak a word while Harry was talking. In the course of his sentences, Harry had sent a definite message:
“Tonight. Eleven. Watch Chinaman. Back street. Here.”
Loy Rook walked into the office shortly after Harry had hung up the telephone. That meant nothing.
Harry made occasional personal calls from the office. He was quite positive that his disconnected conversation could have aroused no suspicion in Loy Rook.
EVENING arrived. Loy Rook invited Harry to dinner in the third-floor apartment. They dined in a room filled with beautiful Oriental hangings, waited upon by Loy Rook’s Chinese servants. Harry went downstairs at ten o’clock.
He waited patiently until eleven. Then he stepped into the hallway and pushed the bottom of the bookcase. The sections opened. Harry retired to his room.
His work was finished. Loy Rook had said nothing about closing the bookcase. Harry listened in darkness. Fifteen minutes later, he heard stealthy footsteps descending stairs. Luke Froy was leaving.
Harry stared from the dark window. He fancied he saw a dim form in the back street. He followed its course, and distinctly observed a man of Luke Froy’s height appear at the corner. Harry still watched.
He thought he saw a patch of darkness flit along the sidewalk. That was all. It was enough. Harry Vincent knew that The Shadow was on the trail of Luke Froy!