THE CHINESE JUNK
THE Pung-Shoon, squat and square rigged, lay at anchor in San Francisco Bay. Solemn, yellow-faced Chinamen, paced its high-set decks. A little motor boat lay beside the wooden ship.
Americans were visiting the Pung-Shoon. One was Joseph Darley. Two others were members of the Civilian Committee. With them were revenue agents.
Standing in the light that came from a cabin, Darley looked questioningly at his companions. They had timed this visit late, for the express purpose of finding if men had been smuggled aboard.
“There’s no one here, Mr. Darley,” said one of the revenue men. “We searched this ship from stem to stern, the moment she hit the harbor. A crazy ship — with lots of crannies.”
“And that framework in the hold,” reminded another official.
“Yeah,” said the first. “You saw it, Mr. Darley. Can’t figure what it’s for. The men won’t spill a word about it. Let them keep their secret if they want to. We’ve got plenty to do besides trying to solve Chinese puzzles.”
“Well,” said Darley, “there’s no use watching the boat all night. You know its arrangement, now. Take another look before she sails tomorrow.”
“Righto,” agreed the agent.
As the others moved across the deck, this man drew Darley aside assuringly.
“If any Chinese try to make the slip on this junk, we’ll nab ‘em,” he said. “We’ve labeled the crew, and we can tag any stowaways.”
“You saw below. All loaded up with secret cupboards and what not. I’m giving you a straight line, Mr. Darley. This old scow’s an opium ship!”
“An opium ship!” exclaimed Darley.
“That’s what it is,” reaffirmed the officer. “We got wind that it was headed this way, with a cargo of dope. You could pack a million dollars’ worth of that stuff without a bit of it to show. So we were watching for this junk; and we went through it right. Not a pipeful of the stuff on board.”
“How do you explain that?” asked Darley.
“Simple enough,” said the revenue man. “This voyage was a blind. They’ve pulled that gag before. Let ‘em come into port a few times — to get the lay. Then they’ll be wise, and slip over a fast one on the next trip.”
“How long does it take a ship of this type to cross the Pacific?”
“Plenty long,” declared the agent, “We won’t hear from this tub again for months. But she’ll be back — you wait and see! There’ll be trouble from the Pung-Shoon, some day.”
Darley shrugged his shoulders.
“It’s trouble enough tonight,” was his comment. “Well, we can go in a few minutes, as soon as some of these Chinese watchers come aboard.”
“Who are they?”
“Ones whom we know. They gave us the tip-off. So we came down to look around. Wanted them here to identify any suspects. I’ve decided to let them stay and keep watch.”
“Good idea,” said the revenue man.
“Yes,” explained Darley. “We haven’t bothered the police with this, because it may all be a false alarm. That’s the Civilian Committee’s work — to look into matters before they become serious.”
As they reached the center of the deck, Darley turned to see a crouching Chinaman advancing from the side. He recognized the face of Foy. He knew that Ling Soo’s servant was to be here tonight, as chief of the watchers.
As Foy spoke no English, and Joseph Darley did not discourse in Chinese, Darley merely acknowledged his presence with a slight nod.
“We can go, now,” he said to the revenue man. “This fellow knows whom to let on the ship.”
THE Americans went over the side. Darley was following when he saw the squat form of Ling Soo coming in his direction.
The presence of the chief of the Wu-Fan was important. It had been arranged that Ling Soo would come only if he chose. Darley stopped and called to the boat below:
“Wait a few minutes. I’ll come along. I want to speak to a man who has just arrived.”
There was a response from beneath. Darley turned to Ling Soo. The Chinaman’s face was serene. He spied Foy, and beckoned to the servant. He spoke a few words in Chinese, and Foy responded.
Ling Soo’s question was pertaining the death of Cleve Branch. He wanted to know if all had gone well. Foy had replied in the affirmative. Ling Soo beamed pleasantly.
He spoke now in English.
“A man was killed tonight,” he said. “A man named Moy Chen. There is something I wish to tell you about his death. It is important.”
Indicating that he wished Foy to follow, Ling Soo waddled toward a cabin. He and Joseph Darley seated themselves beside a table.
Foy, at Ling Soo’s bidding, remained a short distance away, huddled with hands before his breast. He watched the speakers through his nearly closed eyelids.
“It is this,” said Ling Soo, his eyes upon Darley. “The man Moy Chen was a prominent Chinese merchant, who lived—”
As Ling Soo spoke, his right hand was resting upon a molding at the side of the cabin. With scarcely more than a gesture, he drew his chair away, but still retained his hold upon the molding. It came with his hand. The floor of the cabin opened. The form of Foy straightened as it plunged into the hold below!
“Come!” exclaimed Ling Soo, releasing his hold so that the trap would spring back into place.
He and Darley hurried down a steep flight of steps, Ling Soo showing amazing speed for his odd bulk. The Chinaman slid open a door. A flashlight gleamed in his hand. It revealed the unconscious form of Foy.
“What have you done!” exclaimed Darley.
“Foy is a traitor!” declared Ling Soo. “I have tricked him. He knew that I might come here. He does not know that I have discovered him. He let the man Branch escape!”
“Branch! Where is he?” There was excitement in Darley’s voice.
“Men of the Wu-Fan seized him,” said Ling Soo placidly. “They tried to kill. He was carried away, seemingly dead. He cannot do any harm to us tonight.
Ling Soo was bending over the form of Foy. Assisted by Darley, he dragged the prostrate body toward a farther door. Ling Soo opened the barrier. He found a lantern and lighted it.
The glow showed a square room near the bow of the ship. In its center stood a heavy upright frame — two vertical rods, with a horizontal crosspiece at their top.
“Foy must tell,” declared Ling Soo solemnly.
Joseph Darley nodded.
Ling Soo took a piece of stout rope. He crossed the wrists of the man who passed for Foy. He tied them tightly. He twisted a piece of wire to hold the knots firm. Pushing the end of the rope through a hole in the top of the rack, he drew it downward.
Darley, assisting, raised Foy’s body upright. He held it in that position, while Ling Soo pulled the rope taut.
Foy’s form, grotesquely lengthened, was hanging by its wrists, the toes just tipping the floor.
“Here,” said Ling Soo, “he shall tell!”
“He shall tell,” agreed Darley. “Then he shall die!”
“If he does not tell?”
“He shall die without telling!”
LING SOO bowed in acknowledgment. He seemed to accept the statement as an order. He listened placidly while Darley spoke, in a brutal tone.
“Keep him here,” he told Ling Soo. “Let him hang until he gains his senses — if he does.”
Darley’s last phrase was a sound one; for the hanging form seemed devoid of life. It had dropped a distance of more than twenty-five feet when Ling Soo had drawn the trap in the cabin, high above!
“Should Foy seem able to speak,” continued Darley, “threaten him with the full torture unless he tells. He will know its meaning. Each hour on that rack grows longer. No man can withstand its pain.”
Ling Soo beamed pleasantly. This cruelty was something he seemed to relish. His own eyes blinked as they surveyed the form of Foy, with its head bent forward, hanging askew.
“If he does not speak,” declared Darley, “you must wait until the others are here. Come again, to this spot, and offer him one more opportunity.
“Whether he speaks or does not speak, he must die then by your hand. Your killing shot will be the first signal. When it is heard from above, the firing will begin.
“Then for the shore — you with the ones who have fired. Let the sailors light the flares. Meanwhile the others will—”
Darley said no more. Ling Soo understood. He asked a single question, although it was unnecessary.
“You have the paper?”
“Yes,” said Darley. “I shall show it to each one. To each shall go his own allotment. You need not worry, Ling Soo. Your work is here. Instead of being in your secluded apartment, you can perform the task assigned to Foy.”
With that, Darley was gone. Ling Soo was alone, blinking stolidly at the form of the man who looked like Foy. A hateful look came into Ling Soo’s eyes. He approached the hanging form, and from a hidden pocket in the front of the prisoner’s black robe, Ling Soo whisked forth a gleaming knife.
Cackling, Ling Soo placed the blade beneath his own robe. The knife of Foy — The Slayer’s only weapon! The knife that had failed again tonight!
Foy was a traitor. That was why he had failed. Tonight, he was to die!
Explanations had been unnecessary. Darley had accepted Ling Soo’s word of Foy’s perfidy. From the moment that Ling Soo had glimpsed the fleeing form of Cleve Branch, the sinister Chinaman had known that Foy was a traitor.
He had noted Cleve’s attire. He had known that only Foy could have pointed the way to escape. Sneaking through the underground passageway, Ling Soo had reached the meeting room, where he had found the still body of Foo Chow, the witness.
Ling Soo had played his cards craftily. Knowing that Foy would be at the Chinese ship, he had hurried to the junk and had done his part there. That secret trap — an artful device that Ling Soo had seen used before.
Yet, despite the fact that Ling Soo was a master of craftiness, despite the fact that he knew Foy was a traitor, he did not understand that this hanging prisoner was not the real Foy!
The disguise of The Shadow was too perfect even for the shrewd eyes of Ling Soo!
BUT that could not save The Shadow, now. Ling Soo, cold and deliberate, was at work, cackling as he used his efforts.
He had attached the end of the rope to a stout hook on the wall. It went there at an angle from the top of the frame. The Shadow — false Foy — was bound in the Chinese torture rack!
This, the most formidable of all contrivances for slow death, was a device that utterly defied escape. Those hands — bound and wired — could do nothing more than claw the empty air. Well did Ling Soo know the prisoner’s helplessness, for he had seen others in this rack before.
The toes of the prisoner, barely touching the floor, could not support a fraction of his weight. All strain was on the wrists. Arms and shoulders must take the burden that would increase with each succeeding minute.
Foy, the traitor, was doomed. His fate would be a bullet through his heart. Just how soon his life would pass away depended upon how soon Ling Soo would be ready to kill.
Tomorrow, thought the cackling Ling Soo, this body would be found, before the ship cleared the harbor. Those who discovered it would see the evidence of a fiendish Chinese plot. That plot would be attributed to the Tiger Tong.
Let the American authorities learn the identity of Foy! It would be to Ling Soo’s liking.
For it would prove beyond a doubt that the Wu-Fan had been attacked by enemies. Foy — servant of Ling Soo, the leader — found tortured and slain! Nothing could be better.
It added the perfect touch that Ling Soo desired. Members of the Wu-Fan were coming peacefully to his ship. Here, a short outburst would take place. The members of the Wu-Fan would flee, Ling Soo among them.
That brief attack would be attributed to the Tiger Tong. It was to serve another purpose. For while all attention of harbor patrols would be centered on the Chinese junk, other members of the Wu-Fan would be craftily at work elsewhere!
Shots — lights — flares — all were ready for a short, quickly finished outburst. It would all be over before investigators arrived. But with this, there would be a finishing touch later — the finding of Foy, no longer living.
Ling Soo cackled in exuberance. He took the lantern in his hand. He reached up and tipped back the head of Foy. The face, streaked with blood from a gash above the forehead, was grotesque and brutal. It shone with yellow pallor.
Foy was still living, Ling Soo could see.
The squat Chinaman waited. He thought that Foy was regaining consciousness. The slitlike eyelids were moving. Ling Soo cackled again, and his insidious chuckle was loud in that hollowed space in the heart of the wooden ship.
Foy would have his chance to speak. If he would not speak, Ling Soo would wait and give him an opportunity. Then — whether or not he spoke — Foy would die! That was the verdict.
Ling Soo, as though in ceremony, uttered words aloud — designing, perhaps, that they would reach the ears of the man who was recovering his senses.
“It is death! Green Eyes has spoken!”
These were the words which Ling Soo uttered, in the language of his native land.