THE SUBTLETY OF LING SOO
WHEN Ling Soo planned, he employed an uncanny craftiness that showed a mingling of Oriental wisdom and Occidental efficiency. Behind those bespectacled eyes of his lay a brain that prepared schemes far more practical than the fantastic visions of a future Chinese Empire.
Ling Soo seldom disclosed the workings of his mind. When he did indulge in reminiscent talk, he used the Chinese language, and the man to whom he expressed his views was Foy — the sinister servant whom Ling mildly dubbed The Slayer.
Ling Soo could be stern with Foy. He dominated the man, and thereby assured himself of Foy’s lasting loyalty.
When Foy incurred Ling Soo’s displeasure, the master spoke harshly. But between these occasional outbursts, Ling Soo usually chose to treat his servant as a confidant — although even then, he was careful not to say too much.
Back in Ling Soo’s abode, the squat Chinaman was seated on his picturesque throne. He had adopted his favorite pose — that of leader of the Wu-Fan. Foy, hovering near, awaited his master’s bidding. No orders came. Instead, Ling Soo began to express his inner thoughts.
“Last night, Foy,” he said, in his native tongue, “you failed. Tonight you shall see that Ling Soo never fails. You will learn, tonight, Foy. You will learn much that you should know.”
The crouching servant leered as his master spoke. His wicked face seemed to express interest in what Ling Soo had to say. The master went on.
“It is time that you should prove your strength, again,” resumed Ling Soo. “You have been lacking, Foy. You have not lived up to the name that I have given you — the name of Slayer. I am disappointed, Foy.
“I had marked the traitor — the man called Laird — for your knife. But Green Eyes spoke, and said that he would do that deed. Green Eyes can strike, Foy, but he cannot slay with the skill that you have shown. When Green Eyes kills — death may be slow. When you kill — death is swift.”
Foy, although unspeaking, seemed to agree with what Ling Soo had said. The master’s voice became more stern as he went on.
“I sent you to the room in the hotel,” he said. “To the room in which the traitor Laird had lived. A new man had come there. His actions showed that he was an enemy. I ordered you to slay. You did not slay.”
“The man was not there,” responded Foy, in a sullen voice.
“You said that he went in,” declared Ling Soo. “You did not see him come out.”
“He was not there,” repeated Foy.
“We may forget that man,” resumed Ling Soo, ignoring Foy’s protest. “He has not appeared since then. It may be well that you did not slay him. But last night, Foy, you failed again.
“I sent you to watch the home of Joseph Darley; to watch while Darley was not there. To come and tell when he had returned. You say to me that you entered there and saw the man whom we call Barnes. Yet you failed to strike.”
“He went away,” growled Foy. “I was not soon enough to strike him.”
“That is no excuse, Foy.” Ling Soo eyed the servant coldly. “It is not like Foy to say that one went away before Foy could strike. This has happened twice, Foy. It shall not happen again.”
Ling Soo paused reflectively and changed the subject with a thoughtful, even tone.
“The man whom we call Barnes,” he said. “He has another name. He is the man who came here before, with Darley. He thinks that he is wise; but he is not so wise as Ling Soo.
“I have been told that he is in these streets tonight. So I have sent two of the Wu-Fan who know him, to bring him hither.
“I wish to speak with him, Foy. But we must remember that you sought to slay him last night. He may have known your wish. He may be suspicious tonight. Do nothing, Foy, to make him view you as an enemy.”
SCARCELY had Ling Soo finished speaking, before a bell rang softly close by. Ling Soo nodded to Foy. The servant left the inner room toward the hallway.
Ling Soo sat serenely on his throne.
He was blinking mildly when the door opened and Foy entered, followed by the man who called himself Hugo Barnes.
To Cleve Branch, firm-faced in spite of his disguise, this meeting was an important one. Since that event at Joseph Darley’s last night, he had been wondering whether it would be wise to again visit Ling Soo. For there, he knew, he might encounter Foy, the insidious slayer who had so mysteriously escaped after The Shadow had wounded him.
Prowling through Chinatown, pondering on this important question, Cleve had encountered one of the Chinese acquaintances who had arranged his entrance into the Wu-Fan. The man had been glad to see him. In a low voice, he had told Cleve that Ling Soo desired to see his American friend as soon as convenient.
So Cleve was here; and the first man he had met was Foy!
The servant’s face was as ugly as before; but it showed no deep-set malice. It seemed evident that Foy must have failed to recognize the man whom he had tried to knife at Darley’s. Nevertheless, Cleve had clutched the handle of his stub-nosed pocket revolver as he had crossed the hallway toward the sanctum of Ling Soo.
The staid leader of the Wu-Fan smiled placidly as Cleve awkwardly raised his forefinger to his forehead. Ling Soo returned the salute.
Cleve sat down in a chair indicated by the Wu-Fan chieftain. He felt relieved when he saw the crouching Foy retire to a corner of the room, where he stood in plain view, his slitted eyelids nearly closed.
Cleve felt at ease as he reflected on the circumstances of this visit. Ling Soo had no knowledge of the spying which Cleve had done. The most that the Chinaman could know was that Cleve had entered Joseph Darley’s apartment, in search of a paper which Ling Soo had given to the head of the Civilian Committee.
Foy had gone there, in anticipation of an intruder. The fact that Cleve was the man who had entered could not have given Ling Soo a real inkling of the part that Cleve was playing, in the disguise of Hugo Barnes.
Perhaps — as Cleve had thought before — Foy had not recognized him. If that were true, Cleve’s position here was as strong as ever.
Cleve studied Ling Soo carefully, as the Chinese leader began to speak. There was nothing in the squat man’s bearing, or in his speech, that betokened menace. On the contrary, Ling Soo was friendly. In fact, he seemed almost chiding; and it was that manner that lulled Cleve into believing that all was well.
“YOU have been here once,” remarked Ling Soo. “Once is not often. That is why I have sought you, tonight. It is well that we are friends. It would be better if our friendship should increase.”
Cleve nodded in agreement.
“There is a reason,” declared Ling Soo, “why I seek the better acquaintance of my American friends who have seen the light of the Wu-Fan.
“Our great order needs the advice of such friends. For, though the Wu-Fan is of China, its purpose lies in America. Great power will come to those who believe with the Wu-Fan. Would you like to share that power?”
The proposition was suggested in a mild, friendly tone. Cleve, thinking keenly, believed that he understood Ling Soo’s inference.
It was a positive fact that Stephen Laird had been an agent of the Wu-Fan. Laird had been slain — and Cleve inclined, from experience, to the theory that the Tiger Tong had been responsible.
Despite the fact that sinister Foy had wielded a knife with which he had sought Cleve’s life, the government agent discounted any murderous intentions on the part of the Wu-Fan.
It was logical that Ling Soo needed someone to take the place that death had caused Stephen Laird to vacate. If so, it would be to Cleve’s advantage to seize the opportunity. He put forward a question, which, if answered, would give him a clew to Ling Soo’s design.
“Does danger accompany that power?” Cleve asked.
“Yes,” responded Ling Soo quietly. “Danger threatens all who learn the inner secrets of the Wu-Fan. One can not expect power without danger.
“We of the Wu-Fan have enemies. We must guard against them. Hence those who are the chosen few of our great number are the ones who know the most cherished secrets.”
Ling Soo’s impersonal speech carried a subtlety which was not detected by Cleve Branch. Keen though the investigator was, his urge to learn more overcame his natural reluctance to accept such luring statements as these.
He saw his opportunity. Established as an inner member of the secret order, he could quickly learn the truth concerning the death of Stephen Laird. Not only that; he could gain important information of the Wu-Fan’s secret methods.
“My American friends,” commented Ling Soo sadly, “are all too few. I must have more of them. There is work ahead — great work.
“Think well before you accept my offer, friend Barnes, for I warn you that many duties will be imposed upon you. But if you choose to accept, I can assure you that a great power will be yours.”
Ling Soo’s change of tack — his unwillingness to force Hugo Barnes into the inner circle of the Wu-Fan — was the subtle note that brought Cleve’s prompt decision.
He made a definite reply as he stared squarely into the owl eyes that were large and kindly behind the thick lenses of the spectacles.
“I accept your offer,” said Cleve, in the tone of Hugo Barnes. “What do you wish me to do?”
“You must promise, first,” declared Ling Soo softly. “Promise by your oath in the Wu-Fan to keep your new knowledge a complete secret.”
“I promise,” replied Cleve.
He caught Ling Soo’s gesture, and followed the statement by making the sign of the Wu-Fan, to which Ling Soo solemnly responded.
“You have promised,” said Ling Soo, with a touch of sternness in his voice. “Tomorrow night, you may meet, for the first time, the members of our inner shrine.
“Be cautious in your actions until then. Await the hour of ten. Come, then, to the Mukden Theater, which lies across the street from the doorway to my home. There you will see a man with folded arms. Upon his finger a ring — such as this.”
Ling Soo displayed his left hand. Upon it was a ring, fashioned with the head of the golden dragon. Cleve noted that the eyes of the little dragon were two tiny emeralds. It brought a sudden meaning to his mind.
Green Eyes!
Could this be an inner secret of the Wu-Fan? Those were words which Stephen Laird had uttered. Green Eyes!
“Approach that man,” continued Ling Soo, apparently oblivious to the fact that his visitor was still staring at the dragon ring. “When you see him face to face, make the secret sign of the Wu-Fan.”
The squat Chinaman solemnly raised his finger to his forehead, and Cleve duplicated the action.
“That man will lead you to the meeting place,” declared Ling Soo, in a final tone. “There you will learn the secrets of the inner shrine — the highest secrets of the Wu-Fan.
“Remember” — the voice spoke more deliberately than usual — “until then, you must tell no one of your purpose. Your promise has been made. Your secrecy begins now.”
“I understand,” said Cleve.
Ling Soo clapped his hands. Foy came gliding forward, carrying the brass image of the dragon. He held it between the other men.
Ling Soo placed his finger upon the dragon’s head; then raised it to his forehead, and held it there. Cleve, in response, pressed his finger to the metal image, and placed it to his forehead. He held that position until Ling Soo lowered his hand.
The ceremony was ended.
LING SOO slipped down from his throne. It was his act of special courtesy to accompany an honored guest to the outer door of the abode.
Foy going ahead to open the doors, Cleve and Ling Soo walked out to the anteroom. With Foy, they formed a group beside the door of the elevator.
Cleve, softly repeating the instructions he had received, stepped into the lift. It was then that he saw something which startled him. A shadow on the floor, beside the two Chinese — a long, mysterious shadow!
The Shadow!
Could he be here? Cleve looked up quickly. Except for Ling Soo and Foy, the anteroom was empty.
Quickly seeking to cover up his mistake, Cleve closed the door of the elevator and began the descent. But as he traveled downward, he was wondering about the presence of that shadow!
Up above, Ling Soo was returning toward his inner room. Behind him stalked the form of Foy. The servant’s hands were doubled against his body. Ling Soo noticed it as they entered the inner room. The leader of the Wu-Fan cackled.
“Foy!” he said. “Foy. His hand is ready” — the words were in Chinese — “ready to strike tomorrow night! Foy, The Slayer, is ready!”
A murderous grin came over the leering features of Foy. The man’s yellow skin was livid in the dull light of the room. The brass dragon image was lying on a taboret. Ling Soo drew a silk cloth from beneath his robe. With it he stroked his hands, then his forehead, and finally the brass image.
“Ling Soo has planned,” he said solemnly, in Chinese. “Foy shall strike. His victim shall be the man who bears the mark of death! Green Eyes has spoken!”
Grinning, Foy stared at his master. Ling Soo cackled again as he tapped his forehead knowingly.
Handing the brass image to Foy, the leader of the Wu-Fan, plodded toward his throne, with his servant advancing, crouched, beside him.
A strange, insidious pair! One had planned death. The other was to deal it.
Yet more sinister than these living men was the long shadow that lay across the floor in front of Ling Soo’s thronelike chair. It was a living shadow — a phantom shade that was foreboding!
Foy retired to the outer room. Ling Soo rested on his throne. He was staring toward the floor. The sinister blotch was there no longer.
Keen, though he was, Ling Soo had not sensed the presence of The Shadow!