MOY CHEN FAILS
ACCUSTOMED, as Cleve Branch was, to the atmosphere of Chinatown, he felt uneasy tonight as he trod his way along the narrow, hilly street. This district seemed more sinister than ever.
Perhaps the chill air from the bay was responsible. That air betokened an approaching fog, that would be thick when morning dawned. Already a vague mist seemed to be settling through Chinatown.
Each alley that Cleve passed was gloomy — a place for hidden eyes. The very doors between the lighted shops were lurking spots.
As Cleve walked by a placid Chinaman, pipe-smoking at the door of a store, he fancied that he saw the fellow watching him.
Why this thought of prying eyes? If they were watching Cleve Branch, they would gain nothing; for soon Cleve Branch would be a lost identity, replaced by Hugo Barnes. Yet all Chinatown seemed alert tonight, Cleve thought as he walked along.
The explanation, had Cleve known it, was on his own forehead. There, beneath the glow of every light he passed, gleamed a spot that told a story.
It was a secret of the Wu-Fan — known to the most trusted Chinese members only. The mark of death — the mark that meant its bearer should be watched!
No matter what guise he might assume, Cleve would not be able to avoid those stealthy looks from almond eyes, unless he covered up the telltale spot.
Cleve Branch and Hugo Barnes would be alike tonight. Both, men who would be watched!
This had begun the night before. When Cleve had touched the brass dragon and placed his finger on his forehead, he had applied the secret charm.
It was the method of Ling Soo, the crafty leader of the Wu-Fan. So did he mark the men whose lives he sought.
An invisible paste, spread upon the surface of the metal dragon, had reached the forehead of Hugo Barnes. Within an hour after its application, the bloodlike spot had come there. It had shown on Cleve Branch, too, when he had appeared as himself instead of Hugo Barnes!
Since then, members of the Wu-Fan had been watching. Clever, shrewd and stealthy, they had not missed a single move which Cleve Branch had made!
The sight of that mark meant that quick reports must be given of every place the marked man went. All with whom he communicated, likewise, must be named.
Reports were even now on the way to Ling Soo, that the leader might issue orders to his secret followers. The eyes of Ling Soo were everywhere!
It was strange, Cleve thought, as he strode along, that with all these impressions of concealed observers, he saw no traces of The Shadow. He had fancied, last night, that the mysterious man had been in Ling Soo’s anteroom. But he had been mistaken. Only Ling Soo and Foy had been there.
CLEVE was approaching the Hoang-Ho Cafe. He reached the side entrance. There he paused. Despite the creepy feeling of watchers from the darkness, he hurried up the stairs and gained the door to Moy Chen’s hidden room.
Cleve knew the secret of that door, now — a certain lightly tapped signal, a moment of waiting, and the way would be clear.
Eagerly waiting by the door, he listened for all sounds. He fancied that someone might be creeping up the stairs by which he had come. Cleve was about to return and look. Then the door slid open, and he stepped to the passage. A few moments later he had reached the security of Moy Chen’s windowless sanctum.
It was nearly nine o’clock now. An hour before the meeting time!
To Moy Chen, seated at his desk, Cleve signified that he intended to assume his disguise. The two men went into the other room.
As Moy Chen applied the make-up to Cleve’s face, he remarked upon the tiny spot he saw on the agent’s forehead. Cleve surveyed it in a mirror.
“Wonder where I got that?” he said. “Blot it out, Moy Chen, when you put on the eyebrows.”
But, somehow, the mark would not blot. All applications that Moy Chen made failed to cover it effectually. Moy Chen arranged the heavy eyebrows, and found that he could diminish the mark, even though he could not obliterate it.
Cleve, looking in the mirror, decided that the makeshift would do. It was better than too much disguise.
“Tonight, Moy Chen,” explained Cleve, “I attend a meeting of the inner group of the Wu-Fan. I may encounter danger, although I now believe that such is unlikely.”
Moy Chen nodded.
“I am to be taken to the meeting place. I will not find the man who is to lead me until ten o’clock. You have been nearly fifteen minutes with my make-up. I will be out of here before half past nine.”
“That will leave one half hour,” said Moy Chen solemnly.
“A half an hour for you, Moy Chen,” declared Cleve. “I know your connection here. I was told that if I needed immediate assistance, you could arrange for it.”
“I can.”
“Very well,” said Cleve. “Have two men at the Mukden Theater by ten o’clock. Two men who can trail me to the meeting place.”
“I shall arrange that,” said Moy Chen.
“I have been working alone,” said Cleve, “with this very purpose in mind. The other men will not be linked with Hugo Barnes. They will have no difficulty in trailing me.”
Cleve slipped into the suit he wore when acting the part of Barnes. He drew his stub-nosed revolver from his pocket and examined the loaded chambers.
“If I encounter trouble,” he said grimly, “I’ll give those fellows something to think about. A shot will be the signal for the men who are trailing me. That’s understood?”
“Yes,” said Moy Chen.
Cleve had spoken in his own voice. Now he dropped into the character of Hugo Barnes.
Accompanied by Moy Chen, he made his way to the shop. He talked with the merchant, as they stood by the door. Then Cleve was on his way, confident that no one could penetrate his disguise.
MOY CHEN watched him from the door. Keen though the Chinaman’s vision was, he did not see the lurking form that spotted Hugo Barnes as the departing man went by an alley.
Had Moy Chen continued to watch, he might have seen a sneaking Celestial pick up the trail. For the mark on the forehead of Cleve Branch was now visible on Hugo Barnes, whenever he walked by a lighted spot along the street.
Moy Chen, however, did not wait. He had remembered Cleve’s last admonition. In approximately a half hour, Hugo Barnes would be at the entrance to the Mukden Theater. Others must be there, too.
Upstairs ambled Moy Chen. His thoughts, somehow, reverted to that blood-red spot on the forehead of Cleve Branch.
As he considered it now, Moy Chen felt sure that spot meant danger. For though, because of his undercover work, Moy Chen had avoided close contact with the Wu-Fan, the pretended merchant at least knew the sinister ways of Chinatown. People did not appear adorned with crimson spots unless there was a reason. That was Moy Chen’s sound conclusion.
Reaching his windowless room, Moy Chen went to the desk and unlocked a drawer. From it, he produced a small telephone. It was connected with a special, outside wire.
By this phone, Moy Chen communicated with Bureau of Investigation agents. One or more could always be reached, at a special address in San Francisco. Time and again, the undercover man had brought government agents, seemingly from nowhere, to spoil the well-laid plans of the Chinese tongs.
For the first time, now, Moy Chen was using his informative weapon against the Wu-Fan. Tong leaders had never learned this secret. Ling Soo, whom Moy Chen had never thwarted, could not possibly know it.
So thought Moy Chen. But Moy Chen did not know the meaning of that mark on the forehead of Cleve Branch!
Moy Chen clicked the receiver. He leaned close to the telephone in order to speak clearly when the operator responded.
This message was important. There would be just time for men to reach the Mukden Theater. The headquarters which Moy Chen was calling was less than ten minutes from the border of Chinatown, where the Mukden Theater was situated.
The operator’s voice sounded. Moy Chen was about to speak. But the number never left his lips.
A yellow-faced man had sprung across the room. His bands were at Moy Chen’s throat. Another man was with him. This Mongol caught the telephone as it fell from Moy Chen’s grasp.
While one was choking Moy Chen, the other was calmly placing the receiver on the hook and putting the telephone back into the desk drawer.
The hands on Moy Chen’s neck were merciless. They were hands that worked for Ling Soo.
A quick report, flashed to the leader of the Wu-Fan, had told that Cleve Branch — the man who bore the mark of death — had entered through a secret door at the Hoang-Ho Cafe.
The minions of Ling Soo were killers all — when the occasion demanded it.
Whoever lived in that secret room must be watched. That was the word from Ling Soo. The choking fingers that gripped Moy Chen maintained their relentless hold.
The Chinese merchant struggled, but in vain. His throat was rattling. His eyes were staring. His vain resistance became weaker. His struggles ceased. Then, only, did the fingers loose their hold.
Padded footsteps sounded softly as two men traced their way toward the passage that led back to the Hoang-Ho. An inert form remained in the windowless room.
Cleve Branch, unknowing, was on his own tonight. There would be no sleuths on hand to witness the meeting between Hugo Barnes and Ling Soo’s agent in the Mukden Theater!
No word would reach the ears of the Bureau of Investigation field office in San Francisco. No longer did the government possess an undercover man in Chinatown.
For the sprawled, pitiful form upon the floor of the windowless room would never move again.
Moy Chen was dead!