CLEVE SEES THE SHADOW
THE entrance to the Sun Kew was unimpressive. Only an old, dimly illuminated sign betokened the place. Cleve Branch entered warily, moving lightly up the cracked wooden steps, abandoning, for the moment, the shuffling gait of Hugo Barnes.
The interior was as uninviting as the outside. Cleve’s supposition was right. The Sun Kew was a restaurant — or, rather, it had been a restaurant, and still preserved a shred of the resemblance. The place was populated by approximately a dozen Chinese, who sat at old tables in the large room.
Most of the men were drinking, and Cleve suspected that their beverage was the rice liquor relished by Chinese of the lower class. Some of those present were villainous-looking. One glance assured Cleve that none of the men who had attended the Wu-Fan meeting were here now.
Cleve had entered the room from a narrow hall. He did not know what lay up that darkened passage. He observed the doors of other, smaller rooms. But his chief attention was turned to the men about him.
Slipping into a chair at a corner table, Cleve avoided close inspection. He kept his eyes alert, turning his gaze occasionally to the door through which he had arrived.
It was several minutes before a tawdry waiter noted that an American had entered. He approached and addressed a few words in Chinese.
Cleve, responding with a shrug of his shoulders, indicated that he did not understand the language. The waiter retired. Cleve decided that the man had gone to inform someone who spoke English.
Under his coat, Cleve had packed a short-muzzled .38. It was his favorite weapon, that revolver. It had served him well on more than one occasion.
He had carried it to Ling Soo’s. He had brought it here; and now his fingers sought it. There might be trouble in this place. Still, the gun must be the last resort.
The waiter was returning. His face did not appear friendly. Again, the Chinaman spoke in his native tongue. A shoulder shrug was Cleve’s second answer.
The waiter signaled, and a man arose from a table close by. He came over and asked a question also. Cleve, half rising from his chair, now found himself in the center of a group of inquisitive Chinese.
They regarded him as an intruder.
Yet they were not malicious in their actions.
Not one of the crowd seemed to be able to talk English. It began to impress Cleve as ridiculous. They were trying to urge him toward the door.
As the explanation dawned on Cleve, he smiled and let his revolver glide from his hand.
These men must be lesser members of the Wu-Fan. Here they were holding a special meeting, awaiting the arrival of more important members. So Cleve believed, and his assumption was a logical one.
None of the men from Ling Soo’s had appeared. These Chinese did not identify the strange American with their organization. That was all.
Cleve thought of the emblem beneath his coat. He had put it there, because it was to be worn concealed in this place — so his informant had said.
Right now, Cleve decided, that emblem would settle matters much more effectively than his government badge!
Quietly and impressively, Cleve drew back his coat and showed the sign of the Wu-Fan. He stepped back as he did so, in order that all might see.
THE result was entirely opposite from what Cleve had anticipated. Before he could move another step away, a knife gleamed as the nearest Chinaman leaped toward him. A wild, angry shout arose, and with it came the cry, “Wu-Fan!”
In another instant, the mad assailant was flinging himself upon the amazed American. Cleve leaped instinctively to one side.
The charging man was none too accurate. His blade sliced Cleve’s sleeve. But this momentary escape was no salvation. As Cleve look up, he saw two new attackers spring from his right.
The door was behind him, but there was no escape now. With the bright blades descending, Cleve saw death, and dropped to the floor.
That action made him helpless. His hand had no time to gain the gun from the hidden pocket. Yet Cleve’s futile effort to elude the knife thrusts actually contributed to the unexpected happening that thwarted the murderous attackers.
Two sharp shots cracked from the blackened doorway. The well-aimed missives found their marks. The first smashed the wrist of the one attacker, the other reached the shoulder of a knife-swinging Chinaman.
Both were upon Cleve now. One knife was poised above his head, but the hand that held it was guided by a deadened arm. The thrust was futile, and as Cleve struck the threatening hand, the blade flew free along the floor.
As he rolled free from his crippled antagonists, Cleve encountered a greater menace. The Chinaman who had made the first thrust was back again, determined not to miss, a second time.
A huge, surly fighter, he pounced upon his prey with upraised arm, and the broad-bladed dirk seemed certain of its victim. For Cleve was half lying on the floor.
Again an automatic spoke from the door. The Chinese assassin dropped his blade. It clattered beside Cleve.
Once again, the hidden marksman had prevailed. The Chinaman was shot in the hand. He dropped to the floor, pressing his wounded fingers against his body.
The man’s actions indicated that he was no longer in the fray. He was writhing, as though in pain. But in that action lay his treachery.
Seeking to deceive his hidden foe, the big Chinaman huddled on the floor, and his left hand, out of sight from the doorway, obtained the knife that the right had dropped.
Cleve was crawling to his feet, his back turned toward the huge Chinaman. Up came that hidden left hand. Swinging into play, it drove the wicked blade straight for the center of Cleve’s back.
The action was deft and swift. Those firmly clenched fingers formed a fist that even a bullet might not loosen on the instant.
Quick though the assassin was, the hidden sharpshooter was swifter. His fourth shot sounded. The bullet, skimming a few inches away from Cleve’s back, reached its chosen mark — not the hand that held the knife, but the blade itself!
There was a sharp clack as the leaden missive clipped the blade. The knife was wrested from the hand that held it, as though plucked away by an invisible being.
Cleve Branch, staggering to his feet and drawing his revolver, found himself facing a trio of startled, bewildered Chinamen, whose death thrusts had been thwarted.
Who was this mysterious rescuer? Cleve did not know. He realized only that he had been saved from certain death; that he had found enemies where he had expected friends.
The attack had been frustrated by an unseen hand, and one lone comrade was ready to assist against a new onslaught.
THE menace of the first encounter had been its suddenness. Cleve had warning of the danger that was coming now — and he saw that he had much to fear.
He was in the midst of an Oriental nightmare. This room was dimly lighted by swaying Chinese lanterns. The three Chinamen, writhing on the floor, seemed grotesque in their odd garbs. Cleve had no dread of them now.
His eyes were staring about the dim room, peering at challenging yellow faces.
A singsong cry was passing back and forth. The name “Wu-Fan” was uttered in a weird, hostile tone. The pause seemed minutes long — yet it could not have been more than several seconds.
Strange eyes were peering from openings in the opposite wall. A chattered gabble was telling what had happened. Amidst the lull, Cleve raised his revolver as a threat, and began to back toward the door where he knew that safety lay.
The effect of his action was startling. It was the spark that kindled the fire of rage among the foeman. One purpose dominated the entire throng of Chinese: that their victim should not depart alive.
If Cleve had supposed that his enemies were armed only with long, wicked knives, he now learned his mistake. As though by given signal, a dozen revolvers flashed into view.
Cleve did not wait for the firing to start. He blazed away with his revolver, straight at the nearest group of opponents. One Chinaman fell. The others dropped behind the shelter of the tables.
Like rats, these Mongols had slipped out of sight, and opened fire from their ambuscades.
As he sought the protection of a table, Cleve fired at spots where his enemies had been. He aimed well, but his plan could never have succeeded.
He was one against many, and the odds were impossible. His one lone revolver might account for a few of the attackers; but doom was inevitable. Cleve could never make that short dash to the door and expect to arrive alive.
Bursts of flame were coming from all quarters now. The room was ablaze with revolver shots. Cleve Branch was the target, and bullets smashed against the table which he had chosen for a buffer. Cleve’s answering shots were pitifully small and few.
But he still had help. The man at the door was fighting with him. There, from an angle, the hidden marksman could see all portions of the room. He had a dozen targets, and he chose them well.
Yellow hands spread and dropped their weapons. Fingers that were pressed to triggers suddenly lost their purpose. The sharp, staccato barks of the automatic were tokens of unerring aim.
A strange silence dominated the room as the echoes of gunfire died away. Cleve, bewildered, gradually realized the explanation.
His revolver was empty and useless in his hand. He had brought no reserve supply of cartridges. He knew that his weapon had done little damage. Those shots from the door had turned the tide!
Prone, helpless Chinese were sprawled about the room. Those who still remained active were too wary. They were crouching, fearfully, in corners; or they were back behind the refuge of the doorways.
They knew too well that their own shots would betray their presence. They had seen the havoc wrought. Not one dared risk encounter with that superman whose aim was everywhere!
TO Cleve, the silence became a sign that all his enemies were fallen or had fled. In that he was wrong. His knowledge of the Chinese nature was at fault.
These men were snipers at heart. They had attacked openly because they were many against one. Now, realizing their error, those who remained uninjured were lying low, awaiting a false move by the man whose life they sought.
The blackened door was refuge, in Cleve’s mind. The bursts of flame that had emerged from it were signs of sure protection. With gunfire ended, he felt that escape was the only course. Escape, before fresh attackers might arrive.
Springing from behind the table, Cleve leaped straight toward the door. His dash carried him no farther than five feet. The shots came from hidden Chinamen. A bullet winged Cleve in the shoulder, and he sprawled headlong on the floor.
The hidden friend was answering. Shots rang from his reloaded automatics. But now the task was superhuman. Cleve’s false move had placed his helpless body where it was a target for the aim of merciless snipers.
These Chinese would not be content to let that body lie. Dead or alive, the form of Cleve Branch was due to receive a full quota of revengeful lead.
Cleve’s eyes, upraised toward the door, were staring with both misery and amazement. For before him appeared a strange, unaccountable form. Sweeping in from the darkened hallway came a living shadow!
It was The Shadow!
No longer a mere fleeting phantom, The Shadow appeared as a man garbed in black — a flowing cloak upon his shoulders, a slouch hat pulled low over his inscrutable visage. Two black-gloved hands were clutching their automatics.
The Shadow was coming to the rescue!
His first move was a swift one. Like a living form of darkness, The Shadow swept forward, and his tall shape blotted out the form of Cleve Branch. Willfully, The Shadow had made himself the target for those hidden enemies.
His challenge was answered.
No longer was Cleve the victim that the murderers sought. Their fire turned toward this new menace — the man who had spoiled their schemes — the hidden marksman who had sent their comrades sprawling with his wondrous aim.
Swaying evasively, The Shadow made a strange target. His tall form, moving with a mystic rhythm, seemed to elude the fire of his foeman. A bullet clipped the top of the slouch hat. Another zimmed through the flowing border of the black cloak.
From hidden lips came a mocking laugh — a merciless mirth that boded no good for the relentless enemy. A living target, The Shadow had played the Chinamen’s own game. He had caused their eagerness to prevail over their caution.
Unscathed by the shots that had greeted his appearance, he had surveyed the scene with piercing eyes. He had marked the spots from which betraying spurts of flame had told the presence of the snipers.
Now his automatics came into sudden action. They burst forth with roars that sounded like cannon in that low-ceilinged room. They formed a swift barrage — a deadly hail of uncanny fire that rained destruction on those who had unwisely found The Shadow’s wrath!
One bullet caught a yellow-visaged sniper as he dodged behind a door. The man toppled sidewise and sprawled into the room, his revolver striking the floor four feet beyond his body. A sneaking form, slipping down behind a corner table, plumped suddenly and did not rise again.
The Shadow’s left hand, with quickly moving forefinger, turned the path of an automatic across a blackened opening at the far side of the room.
Somewhere in that darkness lay a man whose revolver was pointed, ready to deliver a fatal bullet. The shot never came. The Shadow’s remedy had worked. Another Chinaman became motionless.
THOSE deadly automatics brought another silence to the den of death. Down to a single shot that remained in his right-hand gun, The Shadow had dealt destruction to the hidden murderers. Not one Chinaman remained capable of action — either in that room or in the hidden passageways beyond.
A prone man in a corner was trying to rise and deliver a last shot; but his effort failed. He sank back helpless, and his revolver dropped from his grip.
There was an open window across the room. It opened on a narrow crevice between this building and the next. Through it, a yellow face was peering. This single assassin had crawled to his perch from the floor below.
The Shadow did not see that face, for his gaze was turning to the floor. There, a crippled knife-wielder was writhing upward at The Shadow’s side. His blade was poised in his left hand. Seeking to attack at close range, he had approached The Shadow while the automatics were barking.
The Shadow saw his foe. His right hand swung wide with a long, forceful blow. It struck the Chinaman’s raised wrist, and hurled the assassin sidewise. The knife, loosened from the grasp which held it, clicked harmlessly away.
A yellow hand was beside the face at the window. A gleaming revolver shone. Its muzzle was pointed directly at the form in black. The Shadow’s cloak was spreading, and its crimson lining formed a background for the man within that cloak. The revolver moved upward at the window.
The Shadow, turning suddenly, saw the threatening gleam. His lowered automatic swung upward. Its last shot sped on its way, just as the poised enemy prepared to loose his fire.
The Shadow’s bullet found its mark. It whizzed past the extended arm, almost clicking the gleaming gun. It struck the body behind the revolver.
The leering yellow face dropped backward. A hand waved wildly as the helpless Chinaman toppled from his perch. A moment of impressive silence; then, from the crevice below the window came a dull crash, as the victim reached the bottom of his fall.
The Shadow was helping Cleve to his feet. Dazed and bewildered, the disguised government man clutched his wounded shoulder and staggered forward under his rescuer’s guidance.
They reached the wall beside the doorway. A clatter sounded in the passage. The Shadow’s protecting grip was released. Cleve managed to support himself against the wall.
He saw the man in black leap to the other side of the doorway. Three Chinamen dashed in; two carrying revolvers, one holding a gleaming blade.
They had come, as reinforcements, from the street. Attracted here by the sound of gunfire, they paused and stood blinking at the signs of carnage.
The man with the knife saw Cleve. With a cry, he leaped toward the crippled American. The men with the revolvers turned as they heard his shout.
Like an avenging demon, The Shadow was upon them! With mighty force, he clutched the Chinaman who held the upraised knife. He swung the man’s body as though it had been a form of straw!
Upward, backward, that body went. It was hurled, dirk and all, upon the gun-armed Chinese who were behind their comrade!
One man evaded the hurtling form and grappled with The Shadow. The other wriggled free, and fired wildly at the man in black. But as he pressed the trigger, The Shadow, twisting with amazing skill, precipitated himself and his opponent upon the man with the gun.
Of the two grapplers, it was the Chinaman — not The Shadow — who received the shots. The wrestler’s grip dropped loose. He fell dead, a victim of his comrade’s fire.
The Shadow, never faltering, seized the Chinaman who held the revolver. He plucked the gun from the Mongol’s grasp as one would wrest a toy from a tiny child.
Sweeping toward the door, The Shadow gripped Cleve and swung him to the passage. The black-gloved hand delivered two quick shots back into the room.
These reports from the captured revolver sounded as a warning to all who might choose to follow. They were accompanied by a taunting, gibing laugh. The challenge was not answered. Few could have followed, had they wished!
Police whistles sounded in the distance, as Cleve Branch faltered along the narrow street, supported by the man who had rescued him. The fresh air was reviving. Cleve’s wound ached dully now.
They were threading through dim, obscure streets. The man in black had become an obscure being. The only sign of his presence was the clutch of that guiding hand. Then, suddenly, the hand was gone. Cleve was alone.
He stood bewildered for a moment; then, with a start, he recognized his surroundings. The alleyway in which he stood opened on a lighted thoroughfare. Cleve hastened toward the street ahead. Arrived there, he turned sharply to his right, and slipped into an open doorway into the shop of Moy Chen!
Cleve Branch had been rescued from the dive called the Sun Kew. His phantom rescuer had brought him to a spot of safety. Amidst a horde of enemies, he had been aided by a friend.
These thoughts were amazing; but more startling was the knowledge that the strange shadow that had crossed his path was real and not imaginary.
Cleve Branch had seen The Shadow — seen, him and met him as a living man!