GREEN LIGHTS GLOW
IT was late the next afternoon. Cleve Branch was sitting in a hotel room. He was himself again; but tonight he would assume the personality of Hugo Barnes — perhaps for the last time.
Cleve was confident that his work in San Francisco was nearing its completion.
Ling Soo had told Hugo Barnes to be cautious in his actions until the meeting time. Cleve had taken those instructions to heart.
With Ling Soo, he had secretly agreed that the less seen of Hugo Barnes the better. So immediately upon leaving the abode of Ling Soo, he had shambled away in Hugo Barnes style, and had stolen into the shop of Moy Chen.
Cleve had not required the services of Moy Chen to remove the traces of Hugo Barnes. Cleve had done that himself, wiping away the make-up with a thorough application of cold cream. Himself, again, he had sauntered from the side entrance of the Hoang-Ho Cafe.
Indifference had gripped Cleve on his way to the hotel. As Cleve Branch he could not be identified with Hugo Barnes, member of the Wu-Fan. Cleve had decided to rest and to forget. He had slept late in the morning; he had eaten his meals in his room. Now, with dinnertime approaching, he was ready to go forth.
He glanced at himself in the mirror. Due to the dimness of the room, Cleve saw only the outline of his face — not its details. He chuckled to himself. With this game of Branch and Barnes, it was sometimes difficult to remember which he was.
Had the lights been on in the room, Cleve might have noticed something unusual about his face. But, as it was, Cleve had not seen his mirrored reflection closely since he had left Ling Soo’s the night before!
A door was ajar across the hall. Cleve did not notice it as he left the room. When he reached the lobby, he left his key at the desk and strolled to the barber shop.
He did not observe the man who peered at him over the top of a newspaper. That man was dressed like an American; but his face had a yellowish hue.
In the barber shop, Cleve slipped into a chair and ordered a shave. In glancing at Cleve’s face, the barber paused and leaned over, as though wondering about something he saw there.
But the man made no comment; and Cleve did not encourage conversation. He was thinking of his plans for tonight. He was still in a meditative mood when he left the barber shop, and dined in a small restaurant near the hotel.
There, as before, Cleve paid no attention to the persons about him. He did not see the sidelong glances of a man who was seated at a table in the corner. For Cleve, while he ate, was considering an important visit before he set forth to change his character at Moy Chen’s.
CLEVE was thinking about Joseph Darley. So far as he knew, the committeeman still had the paper with the Chinese inscription. Darley had received the paper from Ling Soo. In their discussion, both Darley and Ling Soo had regarded the paper as important.
After all, Cleve felt that he had adopted the wrong course when he had entered Darley’s home, like a burglar. He would have been to blame had he fallen at the hand of Foy.
Cleve was positive now that the Chinese assassin had not recognized him as Hugo Barnes. All during the fray, Foy’s arm had been across Cleve’s face. Then had come the shot — the extinguishing of the lamp — the appearance of The Shadow — the disappearance of Foy.
Ling Soo, last night, had sounded genuine in his talk. So far as the Wu-Fan was concerned, Cleve felt safe; and he smiled as he thought of an additional precaution that would render him secure. That would be adopted tonight.
But why had Foy been at Joseph Darley’s?
There were two answers to the question.
First: Ling Soo might have feared that the paper would be molested, and had therefore sent Foy to watch the apartment. The vicious Chinese servant must have been listening outside, while Cleve was in the apartment.
Second: Ling Soo may have wanted to steal the paper back from Darley!
There might have been reasons for this. Perhaps Ling Soo had thought that he had made a mistake in letting Darley have the paper. Ling Soo’s suggestion to Darley — that the paper might be stolen — had all the semblance of a subtle alibi.
These perplexities had been bothering Cleve all day; and for that reason, he had decided to follow the very course that he should have adopted in the first place.
The best way to learn the import of the paper was to visit Darley and see if the man mentioned it. That was what Cleve intended to do tonight.
It was after seven o’clock when he left the restaurant and rode in a cab to Darley’s apartment. The doorman was on duty when Cleve entered. He rang up Darley, and announced the visitor. Cleve was ushered upstairs. He found Darley in his living room. The man seemed agreeably surprised to see him.
As they shook hands, Cleve felt fully at ease. He had planned to give a reason for his unexpected return to San Francisco; and he realized that Joseph Darley could know nothing of his adventures in the guise of Hugo Barnes. Cleve’s private investigations in disguise need not be mentioned.
“Back to San Francisco,” said Cleve, with a smile. “This time — I am pleased to say — it has nothing to do with the Wu-Fan.”
“Ah!” exclaimed Darley. “You completed your report on that subject?”
“I did,” said Cleve, “and now I am virtually on leave for the next few weeks. I have to report at San Diego, later. So, with nothing to do, I remembered your invitation to join you on the yacht cruise to Los Angeles.”
“Grand!” exclaimed Darley, with enthusiasm. “Leo Frane is due here at the end of the week. Keep in touch with me. We would like to have you sail along with us.”
“All right,” said Cleve. “I just dropped in to say ‘howdy.’ I’m running over to Sausalito tonight on the ferry. Leaving pretty soon, so I can’t stay long.”
“By the way” — Darley’s face became serious — “if you have not fully closed that case of the Wu-Fan, I advise you to wait a short while. There have been new developments that may affect the Wu-Fan.”
“You have discovered something?” inquired Cleve, with interest.
“I have received information,” returned Darley. “It came from Ling Soo. It refers to the activities of the Tiger Tong. It proves, more conclusively than ever, that the tong — not the Wu-Fan — is responsible for any difficulties that may occur. In fact, I may say that this new information completely exonerates the Wu-Fan of all crimes that may at first glance seem to be of Chinese origin.”
“What is the nature of the information?”
“I have it here.”
DARLEY went directly to the drawer where Cleve had looked two nights ago. He brought out the very paper that Cleve had seen. He spread it out and showed the Chinese inscriptions.
“This,” said Darley, “refers to certain activities aboard the Pung-Shoon — a Chinese junk which came through the Golden Gate a few days ago. The Pung-Shoon now lies at anchor in San Francisco Bay.
“This paper, from the translation that Ling Soo gave me, indicates that certain members of the Tiger Tong, now sought by the police, intend to sail on the Pung-Shoon tomorrow. They are going back to China, Ling Soo claims, to induce certain of their countrymen — members of the tong — to come to San Francisco.”
“For what purpose?”
“As new recruits for the Tiger Tong’s warlike campaign against the Wu-Fan. At least, that is Ling Soo’s theory.”
“Have you investigated it?”
“I am investigating tonight. I expect to go aboard the junk in behalf of the Civilian Committee. There I shall conduct a search.
“If I see any signs of Tiger Tong men, I shall report it to the authorities. The Pung-Shoon will not receive clearance papers from this port until I give it my approval.”
“A very good idea.”
“I should be glad to have you accompany me,” said Darley. “Not as a government agent — for this matter is no more than a civil affair as yet — but as a friend.”
“What time are you going there?” asked Cleve.
“At ten-o’clock,” answered Darley. “I have a dinner engagement, now; after that I shall meet other members of the Civilian Committee. We cannot get started until after ten.”
“I don’t think I can make it,” said, Cleve, knowing that the time Darley mentioned was identical with the hour of the Wu-Fan meeting. “I am very tired tonight. Came in from Denver on the Canyon Special, and I expect to turn in early. But I would like to talk with you tomorrow — to learn what you may have found.”
“Very good,” agreed Darley. “Incidentally, I understand that Ling Soo is calling a special meeting of those high in the Wu-Fan. He, too, may have more information tomorrow. Call at my office about noon. Will that be suitable?”
“Very,” declared Cleve.
Darley’s mention of a special Wu-Fan meeting tonight was illuminating. This must be the very meeting that Cleve was to attend. With the existence of the meeting known to Darley, Cleve felt fully assured that all would be well when he joined Ling Soo tonight.
“If you’re going downtown,” suggested Darley, “why don’t you come along with me? My car is waiting outside.”
Cleve accepted the invitation. He sat in a chair by the window and waited, while Darley went to get his coat and hat.
This window, Cleve reflected, had played a very important part in his career. It was from this very spot that The Shadow had fired at Foy.
All was a hazy recollection to Cleve. He remembered Foy and the knife, rolling away. Probably the bullet had only grazed the man. That seemed the logical explanation of Foy’s quick escape.
Cleve had seen men fall, virtually unhurt, under similar circumstances. He had often seen wounded men rise and run. Foy must have escaped almost unscathed, for the crouching, sneaky Chinaman was back at Ling Soo’s as capable as ever.
Cleve’s eyes looked over the city. There he saw a flashing light that shone above a dull glow. He recognized it by its crawling lines — the sign over the Mukden Theater. That was where Cleve would be tonight — in the lobby of that very theater.
Darley was back. He was speaking as he stood beside Cleve, also gazing toward the lights of distant Chinatown.
“Eight o’clock,” said Darley.
Two tiny green specks appeared in the luminous circle above the Mukden Theater sign. Only Darley noticed them, for Cleve was rising from his chair. Those specks were shining globes of light, showing from the distance like the pupils of two emerald eyes.
“I should be downtown now,” remarked Darley. “Let us go.”
The two men chatted as they rode through the night. Cleve alighted at a corner near his hotel. Beneath the glare of a street light, he stood beside the door and waved good-by to Darley.
Cleve’s face was in full view — plain in the light. Every feature was visible to Darley. There, on the center of Cleve’s forehead, Darley noted a tiny spot of red. It flared in vivid crimson, like a blot of blood.
The limousine drew away. Cleve stood alone. Darley had not mentioned the spot that he had seen; so Cleve was still unconscious of it.
He did not know that his forehead bore the same mark that Stephen Laird had carried that night on the Mountain Limited.
That mark was the mark of death!