LING SOO
CHINATOWN was a splash of light the following evening, when Joseph Darley and Cleve Branch arrived there in the committeeman’s limousine. To Darley, a visit to this district was scarcely more than a matter of routine.
Cleve Branch, although familiar with portions of the Chinese settlement, still found it unusual. His observant eyes wandered here and there, peering toward the yellow faces of passing Celestials; noting carefully the appearance of Americans who were passing through the district.
Darley had purposely left the limousine on the border of Chinatown. Now, he led the way along a narrow thoroughfare that was comparatively level for this hilly portion of the city.
The two men passed by lighted Chinese shops. They turned a corner, and encountered a gay scene. On the right was the bizarre Mukden Theater, a playhouse which presented stars from the Orient. Branch noted the billings — in English and Chinese — that announced the arrival of popular actors from Shanghai and Canton.
They were on the opposite side of the street from the theater, and Branch, glancing across, noted persons idling by the entrance to the playhouse. Some were Chinese; others Americans.
Time moved slowly here in Chinatown, in this spot of the Orient dropped from its native soil.
Joseph Darley stopped at a door that lay diagonally across the street from the Mukden Theater. It formed an unpretentious entrance between two shops.
The committeeman led the way into this entrance. They passed through a plain, lighted hall. They reached a small elevator at the end of the passage.
Darley opened the door, and the men ascended in the lift. It was an automatic elevator that moved in a solid shaft.
They reached a spot that Cleve Branch estimated as two stories above the street. The elevator stopped. They made their exit into a small anteroom. The atmosphere was altogether Oriental now. This silent spot seemed miles away from the street below. For here, with the elevator behind them, both men sensed the exotic setting of China itself.
Darley — a man who was a traveler — remarked upon it as he drew a tasseled cord which hung from the door at the other side of the anteroom.
“You are in China, now, Branch,” he said. “You will meet a man whose mind dwells in China. Not content with keeping aloof from the realities about him, he desires to spread the customs and traditions of his native land.”
THE door opened as Darley ceased speaking. A crouching servant, garbed in Chinese robes, stepped back that the visitors might enter. Cleve Branch eyed the man suspiciously.
A casual observer might have mistaken the man’s stooped position for a bow. Cleve realized that it was the Chinaman’s natural posture.
He felt a revulsion toward this servant of Ling Soo. The man seemed treacherous. Those half-closed, slitlike eyes returned Cleve’s glance.
If the impression of the servant was any forecast of the master, Ling Soo would be a man to watch.
The stooped Chinaman was gliding along a splendid hallway, with the two visitors traveling in his wake. He reached a pair of doors faced with hammered brass. Fantastic dragons writhed in bas-relief upon the panels.
The servant, as though performing a ceremony, bent low and touched his forehead with his fingertips. The doors swung inward of their own accord. The Americans walked through.
They were in a large, sumptuous reception room — large enough to be a meeting place. It was furnished in pure Chinese style. Oddly carved chairs were stationed about the room.
Cleve did not notice the decorations closely. He was interested in the figure at the end of the room. There, in a thronelike chair, rested a placid Chinaman.
The man’s face was like fine yellow parchment. He might have been fifty years old. He might have been a hundred. To estimate the antiquity of this blinking personage was impossible.
A living joss god, he sat in solemn state, while curls of strangely scented incense smoke rose languidly beside him from dragon-headed burners.
The face of this man — Ling Soo — was cryptic. It had a kindly expression, yet was Sphinxlike in its solemnity. The man’s eyes — almost gentle — blinked mildly through large-rimmed spectacles.
He was like a character in a play, Ling Soo; yet Cleve, as he approached him, realized that this was all a natural and subtle personality.
In fact, the government man was somewhat at a loss. He wondered how one began to treat with so unusual a character as Ling Soo.
Darley, as an act of courtesy, raised one forefinger and tapped his forehead. Ling Soo responded with the same motion. Now the Chinaman’s eyes were upon Cleve, gently questioning.
Cleve responded in the manner that Darley had done. The Chinaman returned the friendly salute.
This ceremony ended, Darley became businesslike. He drew one of the near-by chairs toward Ling Soo’s low throne, and motioned to Cleve to do the same.
LING SOO was the first to speak. Cleve, despite his previous contact with intellectual Chinese, rather expected Ling Soo to talk in pidgin English, for the man, Cleve knew, was one who upheld Chinese customs.
But here Cleve was surprised. Ling Soo, when he talked, displayed a marvelous facility with the English language.
“Greetings, gentlemen,” he said, in calm, easily enunciated words. “Greetings, to my friend, Joseph Darley — and greetings to his friend — who shall be my friend.”
“Good evening, Ling Soo,” said Darley politely. “This is Mr. Branch, one of my associates. I deemed it wise to see you tonight, and Mr. Branch kindly consented to accompany me.”
“His kindness does me honor,” commented Ling Soo. “He shall be welcome here whenever he may choose to come. Your friends, Mr. Darley, are pleasant ones to meet. They are what you say” — he paused only momentarily — “regular fellows. Am I not right?”
Darley laughed, and Branch joined in. Ling Soo beamed with pleasure. He seemed to pride himself upon his knowledge of American expressions.
“I shall tell you why I have come here this evening,” said Darley briskly. “I want to talk with you about the Wu-Fan. Changes take place in affairs everywhere — even here in the Chinese settlement. You know it is my task to observe all that happens.
“Tell me, Ling Soo. Has there been any new development in the policy of your order?”
“The Wu-Fan never changes,” said Ling Soo solemnly. “It is the same always. It shall be the same always. The Wu-Fan is the spirit of my native land. It continues the ancient and honorable customs that lived through so many ages.”
“I understand that,” replied Darley. “But I have to look at it from a different standpoint than you, Ling Soo. I can’t forget that China itself has undergone some radical changes during recent years.
“Chinatown is a microcosm of China itself. There can be changes here — as well as in your native land.”
“There is no change in the Wu-Fan,” reaffirmed Ling Soo solemnly.
“But there may have been changes in those who oppose it,” declared Darley.
The mild eyes flashed. Ling Soo’s passivity vanished, for an instant. Then it returned. Cleve wondered at the change. It had been in the dark eyes alone. The face had given no different expression.
But with the return of Ling Soo’s normal character, the thin, yellow lips parted in a broad smile, and from them came a long, cackling laugh. Ling Soo was amused.
“Would one question the lion,” he asked, “to learn what the jackal seeks to accomplish?”
“Hardly,” smiled Darley.
“The Wu-Fan,” cackled Ling Soo, “is mightier than an lion.” His voice and expression became solemn. “The symbol of the Wu-Fan is the ancient dragon — greater than the lion. But the enemies of the Wu-Fan — they are lower even than the jackal.”
“Then,” said Darley, “you believe that what I already know about the Wu-Fan is complete — that my previous report may remain unchanged?”
“Absolutely,” said Ling Soo, with an odd emphasis on the word.
“Tell me,” resumed Darley, “is the progress of the Wu-Fan continuing uninterrupted? Is your membership increasing? Are the new initiates responding as the old have done?”
“All who join the Wu-Fan respond the same,” declared Ling Soo. “What I have told you of the Wu-Fan, I shall repeat. It is the living spirit of old China — the Wu-Fan. It seeks not to do harm. It seeks only to do good.
“Those who believe in it are trustworthy. They rise higher in the order as they prove their worth. They are distinguished by the different badges of membership.”
“One must not judge the Wu-Fan by a single member any more than one should judge a race by an individual. There are traitors in the Wu-Fan, as there are traitors everywhere.”
“You punish them?”
“What does one mean by punishment? That is a question. We have no form of punishment embodied in our code. We place a ban upon the traitor. He is no longer allowed to mingle in the affairs of the Wu-Fan. We make it impossible for him to continue in our service. That is all.”
CLEVE BRANCH was studying Ling Soo. He knew instinctively that the ancient Mongol was speaking the absolute truth. But he sensed a subtle something in Ling Soo’s phraseology.
While Cleve was considering the statement that had just been made, Joseph Darley asked another question, and Cleve forgot all else in his interest in this new subject.
“Does the Wu-Fan,” asked Darley, “intend to be a ruling power here or elsewhere?”
Cleve knew that Ling Soo’s reply would be important.
“The Wu-Fan,” said the Chinaman blandly, “is an ideal. It consists of those who think and believe in common.
“You Americans have your orders — your lodges, as you call them. They have swayed the minds of those who belong to them — many working toward the common good. Such is the Wu-Fan; but it is Chinese, not American.”
“That is just my point,” declared Darley. “The Chinese are different from Americans.”
“Exactly,” said Ling Soo, in a precise tone. “The Chinese are more peaceful than your race. We bide our time. We are not on the rush. The Wu-Fan seeks no quick results. It is patient.”
“Then,” prompted Darley, “your attitude toward American customs and government is—”
He left the statement for Ling Soo to fill. The Chinaman did not hesitate.
“It is friendly,” he declared. “Friendly, because it protects the Wu-Fan. In China, the Wu-Fan would be impossible now, because our native land is ruled by those who conflict, who will not allow those who believe in the past to have their say.
“The jackals, there, have found the dragon weary. The jackals, here, are afraid to attack the young and healthy dragon. For if they so do, they shall find themselves departing from the law of this land, which allows to all the right to think and act with peace.”
Darley threw a sidelong glance toward Cleve. The description that he had given of Ling Soo was being proven. It was evident that the Chinaman himself had vague ideas regarding the present purpose of the Wu-Fan, and that the society constituted no menace.
Yet there was a suavity in Ling Soo’s bearing that placed Cleve on his guard. He felt that it would be necessary for him to know more of this order before passing final judgment.
Joseph Darley was a keen individual, but it was quite possible that he had been deceived by Ling Soo’s honeyed expressions.
There was one important question that had not been answered. What was the attitude of Ling Soo’s underlings toward their chief? That, Cleve was determined to discover.
As the interview drew toward its close, the Bureau of Investigation agent was already looking toward the future. He was vaguely planning an independent course of action.
“We of the Wu-Fan have a high ideal,” Ling Soo was reiterating. “You have seen the Wu-Fan here, Mr. Darley. It exists beyond San Francisco.
“Throughout this country, we have many followers who feel it their duty to contribute liberally toward the future of our cause. I have my representatives who travel here and there on their mission of friendship.
“Some day” — Ling Soo swelled with pride — “the Wu-Fan will be known. It will bring to this country a new era. Perhaps that day will be distant. It has not yet come. But when it is here, my friends, the Wu-Fan will be ready.”
Ling Soo’s voice retained its placidity, but it carried a hidden challenge. The mogul of the Wu-Fan was lost in his dream of future glory. Here, in his own environment, he sat in the state of an emperor. Was his dream purely a mad one? Reason said yes.
Reflecting, Cleve realized that he was viewing the genius who might some day bring the much discussed yellow peril into reality. At the same time, he knew that it would be difficult, now, to bring the action of the government against Ling Soo and the Wu-Fan.
Unless this man and his organization had already embarked upon overt crime, there could be no charge.
JOSEPH DARLEY was rising to leave. Cleve Branch did the same. It was then that the stooped servant entered and approached the throne at the command of Ling Soo.
The crouching man spoke in Chinese to his master. Ling Soo, in return, gave an order. Cleve was watching, and he observed a marked change.
Ling Soo’s suavity was gone when he dealt with his countryman. He was stern-visaged, and his quiet eyes took on a startling glare. The servant responded in a plaintive voice, and Ling Soo, forgetful of the presence of his guests, spat harsh, fierce words.
The servant started toward the door. Ling Soo’s eyes still flashed — until they met Cleve’s stare. Then their anger dwindled. They became placid and retiring; a gentle smile replaced the angry frown on Ling Soo’s countenance.
“My servant, Wu Foy,” he said. “He is faithful, but very stupid; or, as you Americans might say — dumb.” Ling Soo cackled as he used the slang expression. “I must tell him many times when I speak to him. Many times is many times too often. One time is sufficient.”
Darley bowed and touched his finger to his forehead. Cleve did the same. The visitors turned and left through the brass doors, which lay open before them.
As they neared the door to the anteroom, Cleve managed to glance behind him. The doors were still open. Ling Soo, enthroned, was staring straight ahead.
Silent and motionless, his distant figure seemed sinister and menacing to Cleve.
Foy appeared and opened the door to the anteroom. The brass doors were closing now. The form of Ling Soo was hidden from view. The servant accompanied them into the anteroom, and pressed the button for the elevator.
The light was vague here, and the forms of the standing men cast long shadows on the floor. Cleve was glancing toward those shadows. To his surprise, he saw four instead of three!
He looked up in surprise; then toward the floor again. The fourth shadow was slipping away. Dwindling, it drew itself toward the door to the anteroom. It vanished while Cleve was staring at it.
Looking up quickly, the government agent saw the door that led into Ling Soo’s abode closing silently. What was that he glimpsed through the crack of the closing door? It seemed like a mass of black — a huge, living shadow! What could it mean? Had Ling Soo followed them?
No, that was hardly likely. It seemed more that someone had slipped from the anteroom into the hall toward Ling Soo’s reception room — someone who had been waiting here, half hidden in the gloom!
A sudden recollection came to Cleve Branch. He remembered that when he and Darley had passed the Mukden Theater, he had seen such a shadow on the sidewalk in front of the playhouse. It had caught his attention then, but he had forgotten it in his interest to reach Ling Soo’s.
The elevator was here. Mechanically, Cleve followed Darley into the car and felt the descent begin. He was wrapped in thought.
Cleve pictured Ling Soo, the suave Chinaman whose courtesy was lulling. He recalled Foy, the crouching servant of the Mongol master.
But more than that, he visioned the black form that he had seen upon the floor — the rising shadow that had become a thing of life.
There were three occupants of that apartment which he had just left; and of the three, the one whose shadow Cleve had seen, was the most mysterious.
Even more astounding and impressive than the parchment-faced Ling Soo and sinister Foy, was the living form that had appeared only as a shadow!