CLEVE WORKS ALONE
TWENTY-FOUR HOURS after his journey to the sanctum of Ling Soo, Cleve Branch paid another visit to Chinatown. This time he went alone. No one — not even Joseph Darley — knew of this trip.
Cleve smiled to himself as he wended his way through the bizarre streets of the Chinese quarter. He was thinking of Darley and of Ling Soo.
Perhaps the chairman of the Civilian Committee was right, in that Ling Soo’s organization was scarcely more than a fantastic idea. But Cleve was determined to learn if Darley was right.
The Bureau of Investigation, he reflected, was different from the Civilian Committee of San Francisco. The agents of the government must be thorough in their methods.
Here, in his pocket now, Cleve had a report given him by Darley at the office of the committee, that afternoon. The report covered all that Darley knew about the Wu-Fan.
Cleve had accepted the report with thanks. He had remarked upon its conciseness. When Darley had asked him his plans, Cleve had told him exactly what they were to be.
“I shall stay in San Francisco for a while,” Cleve had said. “In and out of Chinatown, I may uncover facts that refer to the Wu-Fan. My report, Mr. Darley, can not be made until I have investigated on my own.”
“Excellent,” Darley had agreed.
The head of the Civilian Committee had been useful. Cleve knew that he could count on him later on, if necessary. But tonight, the Bureau of Investigation agent was out to tap another source of information that might be even more valuable than Joseph Darley.
There was nothing in his action to indicate that Cleve Branch was bound toward a definite destination. His footsteps were carrying him along the well known channels of Chinatown.
He was scarcely more than a sightseer. He stopped before Oriental shops and admired their wares in the lighted windows. He looked at curious doors as though wondering what lay behind them.
Yet all the time, Cleve was cautious. He traced his steps in varying directions, doubling suddenly on his tracks to note if he were being followed. For Cleve knew the ways of subtle Chinamen, and of all that he had ever met, Ling Soo had appeared most crafty.
The lighted lobby of the Mukden Theater attracted Cleve. He stopped there and viewed the placards in the lobby. Foo Yat, the Cantonese tenor, was playing there.
The man must have been a headliner in his native land, Cleve decided, for a steady throng of patrons was entering the playhouse. As he watched the flow of bland-faced Chinese, Cleve was on the lookout for Wu-Fan badges. He saw none. If any had them, they were keeping them concealed.
TURNING toward the sidewalk, Cleve stopped suddenly. Before him, he observed a splotch of blackness. It was the tall, silhouetted shadow of a man. The same shadow that had been on the floor of Ling Soo’s anteroom!
Once again, Cleve was too late when he looked up. The shadowy surface was uncanny. For the moment that Cleve’s gaze found it, the blackness started to glide swiftly away. Searching for its owner, Cleve barely caught a glimpse of a tall man stepping off into the darkness.
With no attempt at haste, Cleve moved to the sidewalk and stared in the direction that the figure had gone. But the elusive phantom had vanished into the gloom beyond.
What did that shadow mean?
Three times, now, Cleve had seen it. Did it indicate that a man was on his trail? If so, who was the man? What was his purpose? Was he a member of the Wu-Fan?
Lacking a name for this man whom he knew existed, Cleve supplied one — The Shadow!
That name sounded familiar to Cleve. He recalled certain reports which had included mention of a person known as The Shadow. A certain man had been instrumental in thwarting the plans of a counterfeiting ring. Again, this unknown had balked the schemes of Red agents who had been active in America.
The Shadow — a man who moved by night. Could this be the same personage?
Future events might tell. Meanwhile, Cleve decided to be on the watch, not only for visible members of the Wu-Fan, but for this invisible being whom he identified, in his own mind, as The Shadow.
In all his activities as a government agent, Cleve Branch had followed one sure formula, when no other seemed available. He knew that those who looked for trouble would surely find it.
Last night, Cleve had visited Ling Soo. If the leader of the Wu-Fan had nothing to conceal, Cleve’s visit would have meant nothing to him. Hence, Cleve would now be a nonentity.
But if Ling Soo chanced to be a dangerous plotter, it was a sure bet that the visit had aroused his suspicions. Therefore, he would be on the lookout for Cleve Branch.
Here, in Chinatown, Cleve was in the enemy’s territory. He knew well that Ling Soo would know of his presence. Being aware of it, Ling Soo would be sure to have his henchmen on the trail.
That was what Cleve wanted. For he had an uncanny ability when it came to spotting hidden watchers. He had proven this tonight, when he had seen that shadow. Only a shadow — but a shadow meant a man in the background.
Cleve was thoughtful as he again wended his way along a slanting thoroughfare of Chinatown. His regular formula called for a new step now. It was time to turn the tables on those who were watching him — to watch them instead.
Ordinarily, Cleve would have waited longer, in hopes of gaining a complete knowledge of unknown watchers. But here, in Chinatown, the streets seemed peopled with unseen eyes. Latticed windows were suspicious. Alleyways seemed made for lurkers. Even the smiling shopkeepers must be taken into consideration.
So Cleve decided to lose no time. He would investigate the Wu-Fan; and before he began, he would gain the additional information he required, from one qualified to know.
TURNING into a side street, as though at random, Cleve Branch strolled by a little restaurant. He gazed curiously at the sign above the doorway. There, surrounded by Chinese characters, he read the words:
HOANG-HO CAFE.
The place seemed picturesque. Cleve entered. He ascended a flight of stairs, and found himself in a little room that had entrances in each of its four walls. Patrons could enter it from all quarters.
Cleve glanced at the menu. He chose an item that suited his taste. When a waiter approached, Cleve indicated his choice, with the point of a lead pencil that he had taken from his pocket.
Beneath the printed item, Cleve carelessly traced a little wavy line. The waiter bowed and left to get the order.
In leisurely fashion, Cleve consumed the Chinese dish. He looked about the restaurant as he ate. There were only Chinese here, and none of them appeared to pay any attention to the American.
Cleve’s eyes were not only on the patrons. At times, his gaze roamed along the floors and up the walls. For Cleve had hopes that here, as before, he might observe a shadow.
His wily search was in vain. The waiter came with a check. Cleve drew some coins from his pocket, and dropped them with a clink. The waiter made change; then walked toward the doorway at the right.
Cleve waited until the man was out of sight. Then he strolled from his table, and followed the same path that the waiter had taken.
He reached a little entry at the head of a flight of stairs. A quick glance showed him an open doorway at the left. Cleve stepped through the opening, and the door slid shut behind him.
Simultaneously, a light appeared in the darkness. It disclosed a short passageway, with a closed door at the end. Cleve stopped before the door, and tapped softly. The door slid open, and he stepped into a room that was furnished like an office.
The room had no windows. A Chinaman attired in American clothes was seated by a desk.
Approaching this individual, Cleve Branch drew back his coat and showed the glimmer of his badge. The Chinaman pointed to a chair on the other side of the desk. In another moment, Cleve was seated there.
He had never before seen this Chinaman, but Cleve knew who he was. Moy Chen, Chinese merchant, was the secret undercover man to whom all Bureau of Investigation agents could look for assistance when in San Francisco.
“Branch,” said Cleve quietly, by way of introduction. “Investigating the Wu-Fan and its head, Ling Soo.”
Moy Chen nodded solemnly.
“Met Ling Soo last night,” continued Cleve. “Received report on him from Joseph Darley of the Civilian Committee.”
Drawing the report from his pocket, Cleve passed it across the table to Moy Chen. The Chinaman studied the papers, slowly and solemnly, his brow wrinkling as he read.
It was several minutes before he had completed his survey. Then he passed the report back to its owner and nodded, while he blinked in owl fashion.
“Can you add to it?” questioned Cleve.
Moy Chen shook his head as solemnly as he had nodded it. Then, for the first time, he spoke.
“THIS is quite complete,” he declared, in slow, short syllables. “I can tell you nothing more.”
“You know of the Wu-Fan?”
“Of course. I have been told of it.”
“But you have never sought to join?”
“No. The tongs would not permit. I must not oppose the tongs. I learn much through them.”
“I understand,” said Cleve. “Well, Moy Chen, I’m not satisfied with this report. I want to see the Wu-Fan at first hand, you understand? It’s spreading all over the country, and I’m here to take a good look at its headquarters. How would you suggest I go about it?”
Moy Chen considered the question thoughtfully. His blinking eyes and round face showed perplexity. Cleve offered a suggestion.
“A man named Stephen Laird was killed,” he said. “He was an American. He was also a member of the Wu-Fan. Can you explain that?”
“Yes,” said Moy Chen simply. “As you have said, Ling Soo has men who travel far. They go many places for him. They see many people who are Chinese, and who are with the Wu-Fan. Americans may travel with more ease than may Chinese. That is why Ling Soo can use Americans.”
“What are the qualifications?”
“I do not know; but I can make a suppose” — Moy Chen was slipping into a trace of pidgin English. “If an American man should seek to be with the Wu-Fan, he could do so. I think I could tell him how.”
“Give me your idea, Moy Chen.”
“There are certain Chinese who are easy friends for an American man to make. If that American man should be full of interest in what they say, he would hear from them in the Wu-Fan. If he should listen well, and speak high of it, they would want him to be with the Wu-Fan, too.”
“Great!” exclaimed Cleve. “That’s my ticket, Moy Chen. If I join the Wu-Fan, I’ll have the real slant on the whole crew. But I won’t be Branch when I meet that outfit.”
“You must be someone else,” agreed Moy Chen.
“And you are the man to see that I am,” returned Cleve, knowingly.
“When do you wish to do this?” asked Moy Chen.
“As soon as possible,” answered Cleve.
“As soon as possible,” mused the Chinaman. “As soon as possible. That is now. You shall be someone else — now.”
Rising slowly, he went across the room with short, toddling steps. He beckoned to Cleve to follow.
Through a door they went, into a side room. From a large chest, Moy Chen removed well-pressed clothes and a box of make-up materials.
The transformation began. Cleve submitted himself to Moy Chen’s art. The Chinese undercover man was a master in the creation of disguise. With subtle touches here and there, he seemed to change the contour of his subject’s face.
When Cleve had donned the other clothes, he examined himself in the mirror at the side of the room.
He found himself staring at a face that he could never have recognized as his own. It had taken on a swarthy hue. The cheeks seemed less full. Even the square chin had lost its challenge. Deftly, Moy Chen had added patches of eyebrows that had effected the most noticeable change.
Rubbing his hand over his face, Cleve was pleased to find that his new visage would stand the test. He had heard of Moy Chen’s ability in forming new features. He had witnessed it now, in himself.
“You say that Ling Soo has seen you,” declared Moy Chen. “He has seen the man named Branch. He has not seen this man. You may go to see Ling Soo. He will not know. That I can say — and I mean — sure.”
Cleve reached in the pocket of his vest and produced a wallet. It was a special one that he always carried with him. It contained cards and other identifying articles that bore the name of Hugo Barnes. He showed these to Moy Chen. The Chinaman nodded.
MOY CHEN led the way through a series of passages and down two short flights of stairs. They arrived in a little ground-floor office, coming through a door that slid back to form a portion of the wall.
Seating himself at a desk, Moy Chen carefully wrote out a list of names. These were Chinese businessmen whom Cleve — as Hugo Barnes — was to visit.
“You must have money,” declared Moy Chen. “You must show much money to those who are the right people. The Wu-Fan likes those who have much money.”
The Chinaman produced a stack of bills from a desk drawer, and tendered them to the newly created Hugo Barnes.
“It is from here you must go,” declared Moy Chen. “It is to here you must come back, while you are Barnes. When you should wish to be Branch again, you must go away by the door through which you came when you did see me first.”
“I understand.”
“You come here, when you wish,” added Moy Chen, “because you have found great interest in those goods which I sell. It is because of that I bring you in this room. Here I bring those who mean good business.”
So saying, the Chinaman opened the door of the room and brought Cleve into the back of a large store stocked with Oriental wares.
With calm demeanor, Moy Chen led his companion to the front of the shop, stopping now and then to point out some attractive piece of merchandise. At the door to the street, the Chinaman became silent and stood blinking, as though expecting a statement from the man beside him.
“Thanks,” said Hugo Barnes, in a voice that varied greatly from the tones of Cleve Branch. “I like your shop. Best place I’ve seen in Chinatown. I’ve got my eye on a couple of things I want. I’ll come back in a few days to buy them.”
Moy Chen bowed, silently and with courtesy. He watched with approving eyes as Hugo Barnes shuffled from the shop with a slow, indifferent gait, no longer Cleve Branch.
THE man who called himself Hugo Barnes smiled in a peculiar manner as he sauntered along the street. Cleve Branch was eliminated for the present. This new identity would mean new lodgings at another hotel. The abode of Cleve Branch would temporarily be unoccupied.
Hugo Barnes affected indifference as he passed the Mukden Theater. The first part of the game was ended. Hidden watchers could stare in vain. Keen eyes could not detect the presence of this disguise. The watched had become the watcher.
Tomorrow, Cleve Branch, in a new identity, would meet in person members of the Wu-Fan. But in the meantime, Hugo Barnes was on the lookout for a mysterious shadow. Now, he felt sure, that shadow would not move away as it had gone before.
There was a patch of darkness on the sidewalk beyond the Mukden Theater.
No shadow could have been visible there. Perhaps that was why the alert eyes of Hugo Barnes failed to see a tall, dark figure that stood motionless in a blackened doorway.
But the watching form saw Hugo Barnes. When the disguised man rambled by, the silent figure moved.
Flitting invisibly, it followed at a distance. A jet-black cloak and low-brimmed hat concealed the peering eyes that watched the man called Hugo Barnes.
From unseen lips came a low — almost inaudible laugh — a sound that was eerie in its tone.
The disguise prepared by Moy Chen had failed in its first test. Beneath the semblance of Hugo Barnes was the concealed personage of Cleve Branch.
The Shadow had seen — and The Shadow knew!