The Living Shadow s-1

by Maxwell Grant

  Loo Choy, the regular counter man, had come in earlier than usual to relieve his lately rediscovered cousin, Ling Chow. In fact, he had arrived at five o’clock in the afternoon.

  There was a purpose behind his action. Since the double shift had been instituted, Loo Choy had had his afternoons to himself. He had found the freedom that he had lacked for an entire year, and he wanted more. He had felt that if he arrived at five instead of six, he might be able to persuade his cousin, Ling Chow, to stay on duty that evening.

  Ling Chow had listened silently to Loo Choy’s efforts at persuasion. But he had given no indication that he would consent to the plan. In fact, he intimated that the evenings were too much work after a hard afternoon. He understood that many customers came to the tea shop in the evening perhaps as many as five or six; and it would require great effort to attend to their wants.

  Loo Choy had denied this. He had held up the fingers of his left hand, and had counted two of them. Only two persons had come in last night. In fact, only one had been a customer; for the other, a large white man, had gone upstairs to see Wang Foo.

  Ling Chow had still been skeptical. No one ever went upstairs to see Wang Foo - that is, no American men. That one statement had been sufficient to prove that Loo Choy was not truthful.

  This had brought a torrent of triumphal words from the lips of Loo Choy. He could prove to his doubting cousin that the American man had come the night before! But in order to see the proof, Ling Chow would have to stay in the shop during the evening.

  The American, Loo Choy explained, had come unannounced. He had signaled at the door in the rear, and had been admitted. He had arrived just before ten o’clock, and had stayed about half an hour. Then, Wang Foo had summoned Loo Choy upstairs, and Loo Choy had heard the ancient Chinaman say, in English:

  “Come, tomorrow night. Same time.”

  Loo Choy’s knowledge of English was extremely limited, but he had understood all these words.

  Then, Wang Foo had sent him downstairs and out into the street, to see that no one was in sight. Having reported that all was clear, Loo Choy had watched the big man depart, and had seen him from the doorway as he shouted to a passing taxicab at the end of the street.

  Despite what Loo Choy related, Ling Chow still maintained his doubts. Finally, Loo Choy made a small wager that if Ling Chow would stay in the tea shop he would see the big American. This aroused Ling Chow’s sporting spirit. He took up the bet, but insisted upon a compromise.

  It was to this effect: He, Ling Chow, would leave the tea shop at that moment, but would return by eight o’clock, and would remain there the rest of the evening. Thus he would have a few hours to himself, and yet be able to witness the arrival of the visitor.

  Loo Choy agreed immediately. Ling Chow left at half past five.

  At eight o’clock, Ling Chow came back to the tea shop, in accordance with his agreement.

  Loo Choy left immediately. It was his first night off since his vacation. He wandered into the street, and looked across. The shadows did not appear so thick tonight. He had noticed the same on the night before, when he had gone to the door with Wang Foo’s visitor.

  Within the shop, Ling Chow sat placidly behind the counter. He stared straight ahead, patient and quiet as an image of Buddha. Not a customer entered the tea shop.

  Shortly before ten o’clock, there came the sound of heavy footsteps on the sidewalk outside. Some one climbed the rickety step and entered the door.

  It was a white man, fairly tall and decidedly heavy. He strode toward the counter, and looked at Ling Chow.

  This newcomer had a full, red face, a large, pudgy nose, and a square-set jaw that hung like that of a bulldog.

  Ling Chow’s eyes were directly upon him. However, after a glance at the Chinaman, the stranger went on through the shop and disappeared behind the tea boxes in the rear. Ling Chow could hear him pound on the door four times.

  Through the partition came the sound of heavy footfalls on the stairs that led to Wang Foo’s private sanctum.

  Ling Chow did not move from his counter for one hour and a half. Then he toddled toward the rear, where he inspected a stack of tea boxes which had been neglected until they appeared on the verge of falling.

  From there he went to the door at the rear, where he listened for a moment. He looked at the door as though he meant to knock upon it. At that instant a bell rang. That would be Wang Foo’s signal.

  Ling Chow tapped four times. The door opened.

  At the top of the stairs, Ling Chow paused in the open doorway that was the entrance to Wang Foo’s den. The old Chinaman was seated behind his desk. The visitor was standing near by.

  “It is time for you to go,” said Wang Foo to the stranger.

  Wang Foo beckoned to Ling Chow, who respectfully approached the desk, and received instructions in Chinese to the effect that he should proceed downstairs and see that the street was clear. Ling Chow waited in the doorway again, until the stranger should be ready.

  The man with the beefy face suddenly reopened conversation with Wang Foo.

  “The old boy may have the goods any time,” he said. “But for some reason he’s holding back.”

  “Perhaps he is not yet prepared,” replied Wang Foo.

  “But the job was pulled.”

  “I know that.”

  “Maybe he’s going to fence them some other place.”

  “I think not.”

  “He’s a foxy fellow. Treats me all right, though. I’m one he hasn’t got anything on - maybe that’s why. He trusts me, too, because I came from you. He hasn’t anything on you, either.”

  “No one has anything on me.”

  “That’s so, Wang Foo.”

  “That is why I bring you here. Remember, if the police ever suspect you of anything, out you go.”

  The red-faced man laughed.

  “There ain’t much chance of that, Wang Foo. The bulls know me all right, but they ain’t ever found me mixed up in anything crooked. That lunch wagon I got down in the Tenderloin is a great hangout for crooks. That’s why the bulls think I’m all right. When they come snooping around my place, the boys behind the counter keep their mouths shut.

  “Don’t the police ask you for information?”

  “Not any more. They know I ain’t no stool pigeon. Treat ‘em both straight - crooks and cops; that’s my game.”

  The beefy-faced man paused, then added:

  “You know, Wang Foo, I’m supposed to be out of town. I’ve got lunch wagons in other cities. Couple here around New York. So when I’m working for you nobody knows I’m anywhere near here.”

  “It never pays to feel too sure,” warned Wang Foo. “Be careful.”

  “Sure,” said the man, grinning. “Only feel safe two places - with the old boy, and here with you.”

  Wang Foo raised his scant eyebrows.

  “With the old boy out on Long Island,” explained the red-faced man, “anybody’s safe, because he’s got his racket, and it’s a good one.”

  “Whereas with me?”

  “Perfect. You’re one chink that minds his business and plays straight. I bet you don’t have no worries.”

  “Not many,” smiled Wang Foo. “But I have been careful lately.

  “Why?”

  “Some other Chinese tried to work something. They sent a false messenger in here. I trapped him.”

  “Was he a chink?”

  “No, an American.”

  “How do you know that chinks were behind it, then?”

  “Because only Chinese would have known about the messenger. After I caught him and had him upstairs, a Chinaman rescued him.”

  “Whew! That’s bad. How did the chink get in?”

  “He must have followed the messenger, and remained hidden in the hall outside.”

  “How did you trap the messenger?”

  “I had two men behind the curtains. I always have under such circumstances.”

  “Maybe you’ve got them there
now, watching me.”

  In reply, Wang Foo rose and went to the wall. He lifted the curtain.

  “Look anywhere you want, Johnny. I trust you.”

  “Thanks, Wang Foo. Well, I hope there’s no more trouble.”

  “I don’t expect it. Both men escaped. The Chinese fought his way out. That’s my only trouble, Johnny. My own people. The police mean nothing.”

  “Why, Wang Foo?”

  The Chinaman spread his arms, with the palms of his hands upward.

  “If they came here,” he said, “and found me with the goods, what would it mean? Some trouble, yes. But I have never been under suspicion. They would believe my story - that I had bought without knowing that the articles had been stolen.”

  “I guess you’re right at that. But suppose somebody should happen to be here with you?”

  “Ah! That is why I deal only with those who have never been suspected. You, for instance. You are my friend. As innocent as myself, and quite surprised to learn that the goods were stolen.”

  “You’re smart, Wang Foo.”

  “It is profitable to be smart.”

  “You’re right.”

  “I always am.”

  The red-faced man chanced to glance at the floor. He started nervously as he observed a long shadow beside him. It was the shadow of a human being, grotesque because of its great size. He looked hastily behind him and saw Ling Chow standing silently in the doorway.

  “Say,” he said to Wang Foo. “I didn’t know that chink was standing there. He musta heard us talking.”

  Wang Foo smiled.

  “Ling Chow knows very little English,” he explained. “Furthermore, he is reliable. He has been away from me for some months; but it takes a Chinese of his type a lifetime to learn English. He is employed in the shop downstairs. Like his cousin, Loo Choy, he is indolent. These men know little. They are faithful. Therefore, they are useful.”

  The man called Johnny looked at Ling Chow, and then at the silent Chinaman’s shadow. Funny things, shadows. A little man with a big shadow!

  Wang Foo then repeated to Ling Chow the instructions that he had given him some time before. Ling Chow toddled downstairs and the big man with the red face followed, to wait in the shop while Ling Chow went out to the street. The Chinaman came back and bowed, indicating that the way was clear.

  “Funny bunch, these chinks,” the American muttered. “Wang Foo is different from the rest of ‘em, though. No wonder he watches out for trouble.”

  He walked heavily down the step.

  “Now to find a cab,” he muttered. “I was lucky last night. But it’s later now, and I may have to walk a ways.”

  He started up to the end of the street and whistled as he neared the corner. A cab was standing near the intersection, and he could hear the motor.

  “Taxi, sir?”

  “Righto!” answered the beefy-faced man as he thrust his heavy body through the door.

  CHAPTER XXII

  FRESH TROUBLE

  The big man in the back of the cab grunted as the car bounced along a poorly paved street. Evidently the driver did not know the best way to the address that had been given him.

  The cab swung a corner, rolled along a street that was somewhat better, then began to increase its speed. Suddenly the passenger in back whistled.

  “Whoa, boy,” he said. “Let’s stop in here a minute.”

  He pointed to a lunch wagon they had just passed.

  “Might as well let them know I’m in town,” he muttered to himself. “Now that I’ve fixed things with Wang Foo, there’s nothing to do until I see the old boy on Long Island. I’ll hear from him in time to plan another business trip.”

  Stepping from the cab, he turned to the driver.

  “Come in, boy,” he said to the taxi driver.

  Harry got out of the front seat reluctantly.

  “Don’t like to spare the time,” he began.

  “Forget it,” replied the beefy-faced man. “Leave your meter running. This is on me.”

  Together they entered the lunch wagon. A cry went up from two men seated there, and the cook waved his hand in recognition.

  “English Johnny!”

  The red-faced man laughed.

  “They all call me that,” he said, “but you fellows know I ain’t an Englishman.”

  “Perhaps not,” said one of the customers, “but you’ve got some English in you, and you sure look English.”

  “English Johnny” turned to Harry Vincent.

  “Sit down, bud,” he said, “and order up.”

  Vincent called for a cup of coffee.

  He listened to the conversation, but learned nothing except that the man they called English Johnny was well known and well liked.

  “When did you get back, Johnny?” came a question.

  “Tonight.”

  “Where are you staying?”

  “Well, I usually pick a downtown hotel, but I ain’t registered yet. Just came in from a trip, you know.”

  “Starting any more wagons?”

  “Expect to, soon.”

  The talk drifted a bit. Harry had finished his coffee. The beefy-faced man had gulped down two sandwiches and had swallowed a cupful of tea. He rose and walked to the door, with Harry following.

  As they neared the cab, another taxi drew up, and the driver alighted.

  “Hello, English Johnny,” the driver called.

  “Hello, boy.”

  The driver gazed curiously at Harry Vincent, but said nothing. Harry felt rather ill at ease. Perhaps he should greet this other man.

  English Johnny detected the glance of the newcomer, but the taxi driver was evidently a mere acquaintance, and not a friend. Harry climbed into the cab and held the door open for English Johnny.

  They rolled beneath the elevated. Harry stepped on the accelerator. It would be best to deliver the man in back before any trouble might arise. The street was virtually deserted; this was a time for speed.

  He went past a corner. English Johnny whistled at him. Harry slowed down.

  “Where you taking me, fellow?” asked the beefy-faced man. “This ain’t the shortest way. Cut over to the left. Don’t you know your New York?”

  “Not all of it, sir.”

  “Looks like you don’t know none of it.”

  Harry swung to the left; as he did so, a passing car honked warningly. There followed the grinding of brakes, and the other automobile narrowly missed a collision with one of the elevated posts.

  An oath issued from the other car. Its driver stepped from one door and a policeman from the other. Harry was stopped in the middle of the street.

  “What’s the idea?” demanded the policeman.

  “Just turning left,” said Vincent.

  “Where was your hand?”

  “I had it out,” answered Harry truthfully.

  The officer turned to his companion.

  “Did you see him put his hand out?”

  “No,” said the other man. “I’m glad I was giving you a lift, officer. You can see what we drivers are up against. These taxis think they own the streets. Why don’t you run him in?”

  The policeman glowered at Vincent. He looked as though he was sorry there had not been an accident. He seemed to be after an excuse to make an arrest.

  “Get out your driver’s license,” he said. “Show me your certificates.”

  Vincent fumbled in the pocket of his uniform. He half expected to find the credentials there. Then he realized that he would be unable to sign properly - doubtless the officer would require that.

  This was something that had not been anticipated; evidently no provision had been made for it. The pocket was empty.

  “One chance in a million,” thought Vincent. “One chance that I would run into a mess like this.”

  The policeman was opening the back door of the car.

  “Let’s take a look at your mug back here,” Vincent heard him say.

  “Do you mean me?” came the voic
e of English Johnny.

  “No. I mean the picture of this bum driver you have up back of the front seat. But I’ll look you over, too, if you want. What’s your name?”

  “Well,” came the reply, “my name’s Harmon; but most of the boys know me by the title of English Johnny.”

  The policeman looked up.

  “English Johnny!”

  “Sure.”

  “The fellow that owns the lunch wagons?”

  “The same one. I know some big men on the force, too.”

  “I’ve heard that. Say, what’ll I do with this driver you’ve got here?”

  “Let him take me out to my place, first. He’s been long enough getting me there.”

  The officer laughed.

  “Drive along,” he said to Harry. “This gentleman wants to get home.”

  “What about running him in?” asked the man from the other car.

  “Forget it,” said the policeman.

  Vincent put the car in gear and drove hurriedly away. The interruption of English Johnny had been fortunate. He hoped there would be no more complications.

  Just then another whistle from the back seat broke in on Harry’s thoughts.

  “Pull up by the curb here,” came the voice of his passenger. Harry obeyed the order.

  English Johnny stepped out of the door - he had ordered Harry to the left side of the street - now he looked sharply at the driver of the cab, whose face was clearly visible beneath the light of a street lamp.

  “Listen here, fellow,” demanded English Johnny, “are you trying to give me the run-around?”

  “No, sir,” replied Vincent.

  “It looks like you were.”

  “Why?”

  “Because you talk like you know the streets, and yet you’ve been getting mixed up every few blocks.”

  Vincent decided that a taxi driver would answer this sort of talk with some emphatic statements of his own. So he tried it.

  “Maybe I know the streets better than you,” he growled in a sullen voice. “I’m driving the cab. I know my business.”

  “Maybe you’re all right,” replied English Johnny, as though half convinced. “I just wanted to make sure.”

  “I’m all right.”

  “Well, you kinda got into trouble back there at the elevated.”