A LIGHT clicked in a room; a blue incandescent threw its ghoulish glow upon a polished table. White hands — blue-hued in the weird glare — appeared. Upon one finger gleamed The Shadow’s token, the iridescent girasol, the gem of ever-changing colors.
The hands opened an envelope. An inner envelope followed. It was marked:
Chittenden Records — Complete
Folded papers were drawn from the envelope. The Shadow’s supple fingers spread the documents upon the table. Keen eyes from the dark scanned the closely-typed lines, noting every detail in the wealth of information.
As the hands refolded the papers, a soft, whispered laugh broke through the room. Black walls threw back the shuddering sound. The laugh died away, as impish echoes took up the weird mockery.
Now The Shadow’s right hand was inscribing visible thoughts upon a sheet of paper. The brain that was mapping out a direct campaign was putting its ideas into carefully formed writing. The brief phrases formed a column.
UPPER BEECHVIEW
Zachary Chittenden plans overheard.
Waiting tonight. Action tomorrow night.
Vincent watching to inform in case of emergency.
The writing began to fade. Letter by letter, it passed from view. Affairs at Upper Beechview were in temporary abeyance.
The hand inscribed a new column on the same sheet of paper:
LOWER BEECHVIEW
Quiet essential tonight. No action.
Watchers arranged by Harvey Chittenden.
Tomorrow night important.
After the writing faded, The Shadow’s hand wrote two lists of comparative forces:
Upper Beechview: Zachary; three regular retainers; three — or more — reserves.
Lower Beechview: Harvey; Jessup; two men. Ware absent.
After this consideration of opposing forces, one group numbering at least seven men, the other four, The Shadow wrote:
THE GROVE
Lei Chang — Koon Woon
Those two names faded after the capitalized words had gone. The hand, with a quick motion, inscribed a huge question mark upon the paper. Then, after the interrogative had obliterated itself, the hand of The Shadow slowly wrote this statement.
Choy Lown can tell.
The short sentence seemed to linger longer than the previous writings. It carried a marked significance.
Eyes studied the paper after the words had vanished. The light clicked out. A laugh came through the pitch-black darkness.
There was no mockery in that sound. The laugh, was one of strange determination; a hoarsely echoed cry that signified the unknown. Only when grave danger lay ahead did The Shadow laugh like that.
The eerie echoes clung to the unseen drapings of this mysterious room — The Shadow’s sanctum. When the last hushing sound had whispered in uncanny reply, complete silence pervaded all. The Shadow was gone.
What strange adventure was on foot tonight? Why had The Shadow laughed so weirdly?
Because within the next few hours, The Shadow was to undertake the impossible; to pit his wits against the strangest lair that human cunning had ever conceived.
“Choy Lown can tell—”
To those who knew, that brief statement would have been awe-inspiring. Choy Lown, aged recluse of Chinatown, the crafty old man whom all tong leaders feared, was one who dwelt away from all the world.
No one had seen Choy Lown for years. He molested no one; but his philosophy of life was to live without friends. His mandates — wise decisions that were supplied when so he chose — came from a mysterious and secretive source.
The very name of Choy Lown meant beware. This odd Oriental possessed tremendous knowledge and unfailing memory; yet he preserved both for his own purposes. It was said that Choy Lown knew every riddle of the Orient. He was regarded as a demigod by superstitious Chinese.
None of Choy Lown’s countrymen knew where the ancient savant lived; had they learned, they would have avoided the spot with utmost care. For Choy Lown’s philosophy taught him that all intruders were lawful prey. It was known to the craftiest men of Chinatown that Choy Lown’s hidden abode was surrounded by traps that no living person could escape.
“In the toils of Choy Lown,” was a proverb of New York’s Chinatown. It was used to indicate a situation from which there could be no possible escape.
Tonight, The Shadow intended to visit Choy Lown. From that one man, he knew, he could gain the information that he wanted — could learn the secret that involved Lei Chang and Koon Woon.
To visit Choy Lown meant to go uninvited. The way would be barred by relentless pitfalls. Choy Lown was the man whom none had dared defy.
Tonight, The Shadow would defy him! While the mystery of the two Beechview mansions was dormant, The Shadow would prepare for the grand climax that was sure to come.
CHAPTER XIV. THE DEATH WEB
OF all the quiet spots in New York’s Chinatown, the Tai Yuan Oriental Shop was most placid and unobtrusive. It was located on a narrow street, away from the din that characterized other thoroughfares of the quaint district. It occupied the ground floor of a building that stood by itself, and it was presided over by a bland-faced Chinaman who was the very picture of integrity.
None would have suspected the Tai Yuan as a blind for a hop joint. In fact, the place had long been open to inspection by the authorities. The quiet proprietor, Wing Goy, was a man of estimable status.
Never, in all the years that he had dwelt in Chinatown, had Wing Goy been implicated in anything that savored of crime.
There were other shops in Chinatown that bore a similar reputation, but there was one fact about the Tai Yuan that made it different. That was the location. Away from the spots where sightseers flocked, the Tai Yuan could not expect its share of trade. Nevertheless, Wing Goy seemed satisfied.
Other Orientals had shaken their heads and chattered about Wing Goy’s folly. Money could be made by Wing Goy if he used wisdom. But Wing Goy used no wisdom. As one Oriental phrased it, Wing Goy “had cast his fish line in a pail” — but that was Wing Goy’s affair. Let him be a fool if he so chose.
The Tai Yuan Shop was divided into several rooms, with passages between. The rooms were stocked with odd furnishings from tiny Oriental trinkets, to huge carved cabinets. It was seldom that any of these articles — even the smallest — were sold, yet Wing Goy never worried. From before noon until late at night, he sat placidly near the door that led to the street, and surveyed the few idlers who passed the place.
When prospective purchasers entered — as they did but seldom — Wing Goy made no effort to induce them to buy. They were welcome, but they were never encouraged to go through the stock rooms of the shop.
Wing Goy and his family lived on the second floor of the building. There was a third floor where servants dwelt; above that, a small fourth story. Widely separated windows designated these living quarters. The fourth floor, low and windowless, was evidently a storeroom.
On this particular night, while Wing Goy sat blinking just inside the door, a strange visitor came to the silent street outside the shop. The person who approached gave no sign of his presence. Only a faint rustling in the darkness announced the fact that a living being was approaching the shop. At length, a vague, long splotch of blackness extended itself across the threshold, where it obscured the dim rays of feeble light that emanated from the shop.
Wing Goy came toward the door. It was closing time. In accordance with his usual procedure, he was about to shut the shop for the night. His long, bony hand rested upon the edge of the door. Within a few minutes, that door would be closed and triple barred.