Maxwell Grant - The Shadow - 145 - The Golden Pagoda

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THE GOLDEN PAGODA
by Maxwell Grant
As originally published in "The Shadow Magazine," March 1, 1938.
From out of China comes the master of all brigands - Li Hoang - to
battle,
in New York's Chinatown, the Master of Darkness - The Shadow!
CHAPTER I
THE VANISHED CLUE
MOTT STREET formed a line of alluring glitter, when the cumbersome
Chinatown bus disgorged its crowd of passengers. Ahead lay brilliant lights
flanked by an array of Oriental signs and banners, that brought eager gasps
from sight-seers.
They had reached New York's Chinatown, these visitors from the
hinterlands. It looked like the strange, exotic place that they had expected
to
see. Most of them were gullible, ready to believe anything that their guide
might tell them.
Passers-by grinned as the group moved along Mott Street. Just another
crop
of tourists, swallowing the old hokum. Helped by the guide's spiel, their
imaginations might weave a spell of mysterious intrigue about the Chinese
district. But to those in the know, Chinatown was just a part of Manhattan
where a lot of Chinese happened to live.
Tonight, those in the know were wrong.
Something sinister lurked in Chinatown; and there was one man who
realized
it. That was why he had come here, in a manner that would least be suspected:
as
a member of the party aboard the Chinatown bus.
To all appearances, he was just another of the sight-seers - a clean-cut
young chap, who looked like an out-of-towner. Actually, he was thoroughly
familiar with Manhattan; his gawky gaze, his expressions of surprise, were
shams.
That young man's name was Harry Vincent. He was an agent of The Shadow.
For years, Harry Vincent had served a mysterious, invisible chief, whose
word was law. There was nothing secret, however, about The Shadow's purpose.
The Shadow had one sole aim; that was to break up crime. In his campaigns
against master-plotters of evil, The Shadow was frequently aided by trusted
agents.
Chinatown's present menace was insidious. Grave danger threatened any
wayfarer who might be suspected as an agent of The Shadow. Spies might be
anywhere - everywhere - watching for such persons. The sight-seeing bus had
provided the surest way for Harry to pass through the secret cordon.
This was Harry's third visit in as many nights. Though his expression did
not show it, he was tense when the guide conducted the party up a flight of
narrow stairs, to show the visitors the interior of a Chinese joss house.
Harry was in the background when the crowd shoved into a squarish room,
where a solemn Buddha sat as ruler of a shoddy temple.
A squatly Chinaman, dressed in Oriental robes, spoke choppy English as he
displayed wishing sticks, prayer papers, and other objects that went with
Chinese rites. Two girls, also Chinese, passed wishing sticks among the
visitors. There was another Chinaman, standing in the corner; but he was dull
of eye, wrinkled of face. He wasn't the extra man that Harry had expected to
see.
Harry was looking for a snake-eyed Celestial who had been here the night
before. Harry knew the fellow's name - Chun Laro - and he had some information
regarding the snake-eyed Chinaman.
Chun Laro was from San Francisco; he had a bad reputation among the
Chinese of that city. Hundreds of prayer papers had been burned, with the wish
that Chun Laro would leave Frisco. The hope had been fulfilled, but the prayer
papers were not the cause.
Some purpose requiring ugly services had brought Chun Laro to New York.
Here, he might soon be a thorn to local Chinese, even though he had the
ability
to avoid trouble with the law.
The absence of Chun Laro was no surprise to Harry. Two nights ago, the
snakish rogue had been lounging near the doorway of a Chinese restaurant. Last
night, this joss house had been his habitat. Evidently, he had chosen a new
lurking spot for the present evening.
WHILE lingering, Harry glanced about the little temple. He was thinking
of
Chun Laro; perhaps that was why his train of impressions ran to other things
that were absent. Harry saw a shelf, topped by a row of incense burners. His
eye stopped upon a vacant space.
Instantly, Harry remembered an object that had been there the night
before. The missing item was a ten-inch miniature of a Chinese pagoda, that
Harry had especially noticed, because it was made of gold.
At the time, Harry had supposed that the pagoda was merely gold-plated.
His present idea was different. That pagoda might be made of actual gold; a
rare and valuable token that could not easily be imitated.
"The Golden Pagoda!"
Harry spoke the words, half aloud. Another thought had flashed; for the
first time, he recalled why he had noticed that pagoda, last night. Two nights
ago, the same pagoda - or its exact duplicate - had been in the window of the
restaurant where Harry had observed Chun Laro!
Tourists were filing from the joss house. Harry went with them. On the
street, they passed the restaurant. There was no sign of Chun Laro, nor was
the
Golden Pagoda in the window. All along the route, Harry kept watching for
both;
but he saw neither.
The group turned right on Pell Street. They came to Doyers; headed toward
the Bowery Mission, which had once been an old Chinese theater. The trip would
end with Doyers Street. Harry saw blank results, if he remained with the
sight-seeing throng. His only bet was to stay in Chinatown, once here.
Edging away from the entrance to the old theater, Harry turned back along
Doyers Street. A hunch-shouldered bum blocked him, made a whiny request for a
match to light the stump of a cigarette. Harry thought for a moment that the
fellow was a panhandler, beginning a build-up. Then he spotted the wizened
face
beneath the bum's tilted cap visor.
The pretended panhandler was "Hawkeye," a crafty agent who prowled the
underworld seeking information for The Shadow.
Harry handed Hawkeye a half-filled pack of paper matches. In an
undertone,
he voiced the same words that he had muttered in the joss house:
"The Golden Pagoda -"
There was no chance for more. Two Chinese were shuffling along the
street;
they were the sort who might be hooked up with Chun Laro. Hawkeye spotted
them,
whined to Harry:
"Only a dime, mister -"
Harry gave an annoyed head shake. He thrust away from Hawkeye. With a
disappointed grimace, the wizened-faced man shuffled along to join a line of
bums who were awaiting admittance into the basement bunk rooms of the mission.
Strolling toward Chinatown's center, Harry covered an area that he had
missed during the sight-seeing tour. He saw a small curio shop; paused outside
to light a cigarette. While looking at the curios stacked in the window, Harry
received a sudden thrill.
There, at the end of a shelf, stood the Golden Pagoda!
SAUNTERING past the doorway, Harry casually looked inside. There was only
one man in the place - a bland Chinese merchant, seated in a rear alcove
behind
a pair of raised curtains.
Harry turned about, took in the street at a quick glance. Spying no
Chinese close at hand, he entered the curio shop.
The bland merchant received him without stirring from the alcove. He
seemed to be expecting a visitor like Harry. Playing the part of a chance
customer, Harry inquired the price of the Golden Pagoda.
The merchant slowly shook his head.
"Not for sale," he declared, in smooth English. "Moreover, sir, you would
not wish to buy it."
"Why not?" questioned Harry.
"It is not gold," returned the merchant. "It is brass. Wait! I shall
prove
so!"
He waddled to the window, brought the pagoda from its niche. Beckoning
Harry into the little alcove, the Chinaman put the pagoda on one side of a set
of scales resting on a table. On the other, he piled weights, until both
balanced.
"You see?" The merchant was steadying the scales as he spoke. "It does
not
weigh enough to be gold!"
Harry's eyes were on the side of the scales that bore the weights. He saw
the merchant's fingers resting on the edge. Their pressure was adding to the
balance, to make the tiny pagoda seem less than its actual weight.
Harry's hand sped for the merchant's wrist. The move accomplished its
purpose. The bland Chinaman whipped his hand away; the pagoda side of the
scales thumped heavily against the table top. But that was not all that
happened.
With a sudden snarl, the merchant reached for a cord. He yanked it; the
curtains dropped between the alcove and the shop. Harry, behind the table, was
out of sight from any persons who might chance to pass the shop. The
Chinaman's
snarl also had a purpose.
As he faced the fellow, Harry heard a sharp click beside him. It was an
answer to the snarled signal. Wheeling, Harry saw a panel pivot about in the
side wall of the alcove.
There, with twisty lips as snakish as his ugly eyes, stood the renegade
Chinaman whom Harry had connected with the Golden Pagoda. There was no more
doubt about the link that Harry had guessed. The man beyond the panel was Chun
Laro!
IN one long-clawed hand, Chun Laro clasped a knife. His arm was drawn
back, ready to deliver a thrust. Harry didn't give him time for that stroke.
Employing sudden tactics of his own, The Shadow's agent showed his own
ability.
Spinning back from the table, Harry twisted toward the opposite side of
the alcove; as he wheeled, he pulled an automatic from his hip pocket. The
finish of his move seemed perfect; all Harry had to do was plank his shoulders
against the opposite wall. With that sudden stop, he would hold Chun Laro
covered.
It was the wall itself that spoiled Harry's halt. The instant that his
shoulders struck, the wall gave. It was fitted with a revolving panel, like
the
one from which Chun Laro had appeared.
The whole alcove seemed to whirl at that moment. Harry's own impetus
carried him into the trap, so rapidly that he had no time to fire a shot.
Flung
roundabout, he caught a last flash of leering faces - Chun Laro's and the
merchant's - then came pitch-darkness; the sharp click of the locking panel.
Harry hurtled headlong into the blackness. An instant later, the space
beneath his feet was empty. A gasp on his lips, Harry took a crazy plunge,
striking a stony wall as he went downward. That blow dizzied him; a half
second
later, there was another.
Sprawling upon a cement passage, Harry received a thump on the head that
left him senseless.
Up in the alcove, Chun Laro put away his knife. Moving sneakily to the
panel where Harry had disappeared, the serpent-eyed Chinaman unlocked it. He
opened the panel slightly. He listened; then closed the barrier.
Chun Laro moved to the table. He took the Golden Pagoda from the scales,
forced it beneath the front of his robe. He spoke sing-song language to the
merchant; then went through his own panel, which offered an untrapped path.
The panel locked. The merchant took the weights from the scales, stacked
them where they belonged. He peered between the curtains. Satisfied, he drew
them open, to resume his seat in the alcove.
From the street, the curio shop looked undisturbed, its proprietor as
calm
and bland as ever. Nothing remained to show that Harry Vincent had entered
here,
to fall helpless into the hands of enemies. The lone clue had gone with Chun
Laro.
That clue was the Golden Pagoda!
CHAPTER II
ANOTHER VISITOR
THOUGH Chinatown's surface was calm, news of restless undercurrents had
traveled from that district. One hour after the disappearance of Harry
Vincent,
Chinese affairs were being discussed in another quarter.
Three men were present in an office-like room. One, who sat behind a
mahogany desk, was a man of military appearance, with short-clipped mustache.
Full of face, brisk of manner, he had an air that suited his important
position. He was Ralph Weston, commissioner of New York City police.
Opposite Weston sat a man of different bearing.
The second individual was Inspector Joe Cardona, ace of the New York
force. Cardona was stocky of build, swarthy of complexion, and decidedly
poker-faced. When he was irked, he seldom showed it; but tonight, Cardona
almost gave himself away.
Commissioner Weston didn't notice it; but the third person in the room
was
keen enough to understand Cardona's expression.
That third person was a friend of Weston's, a chance visitor who had
stopped in at the commissioner's apartment. Tall, with an immobile, hawkish
face, he was leisurely smoking a thin cigar, seemingly disinterested in the
conversation. That was the way with Lamont Cranston, the millionaire
globetrotter.
Behind that mask of indifference lay a keen discernment, which, if
noticed, might have given a clue to the visitor's real identity.
This personage who posed as Lamont Cranston, was actually The Shadow.
"All right, commissioner." It was Cardona who spoke; his bluntness
covered
the bite of his tone. "Maybe you've sized it properly, but I still know the
symptoms. Things aren't right in Chinatown!"
"Are they ever right?" queried Weston.
The question brought a smile from Cranston. Cardona saw it; gave a wry
grin of his own.
"There's something to that, commissioner," admitted the inspector,
deciding that it was best to keep his chief in good humor. "It's always tricky
business, handling the Chinese. There's a lot goes on, under the surface, all
the time. But when it comes to the top, it's time to be ready!"
Weston smiled indulgently. Cardona decided to continue.
"There are new faces in Chinatown," he insisted. "Mugs that don't look
right. Others that we know - fellows who have been out of sight - that look
like hatchet men. That covers the Chinese; but they aren't all.
"The Chinatown squad has spotted plenty of hoodlums, moving in and out.
Those gorillas don't belong there. They're either going to bust loose with
something, or they're covering up some game that's deeper. That's it in a
nutshell!"
Weston shook his head; the gesture was a weary one.
"You've told me all this before," said the commissioner. "Therefore, I
repeat my former statement: Show me some purpose behind the factors that you
mention; then we can decide upon the remedy."
Cardona had no answer.
"TONG wars are a thing of the past," added Weston. "That disposes of one
possibility of trouble. Sometimes, there are fanatical outbreaks among joss
cults; but there have been no recent indications of such. That eliminates
another source.
"Only one other remains: Dope! It can also be forgotten. No large
shipments of narcotics have been smuggled recently. We invariably receive tips
when dope peddlers are active. There have been no such reports."
Cardona remained glumly silent. Weston reached for a sheaf of papers;
scanning them, he remarked:
"Why not investigate other matters, Cardona? Here are two complaints
regarding racketeers. One from the Compometal Corporation; the other from the
Federal Export Company."
A gleam of satisfaction came to Cardona's eyes.
"I looked into those," snapped the ace. "Both are the bunk! I talked with
the president of Compometal. His plant is running top speed, turning out
aluminum alloys for aircraft. The general manager of Federal Export says they
had some trouble getting shipments under way, but that it's all been
straightened out."
Weston looked doubtful. "The complaints came from those very officials
you
mention -"
"And they've withdrawn them!" inserted Cardona. "Those cases are closed.
I've been sticking close to my job, commissioner. I settled those matters
before I began to bother about this Chinatown business."
"Very well," decided Weston, folding the report sheets. "What do you
propose to do regarding the Chinese question?"
"I want to make the rounds with the Chinatown squad," replied Cardona.
"That's not asking much, commissioner."
Weston agreed that the request was reasonable. He gave Cardona permission
to take over that temporary duty. The ace inspector expressed his thanks, then
left before the commissioner had a chance to change his mind.
Alone with Cranston, Weston chuckled.
"Cardona has a leaning for hunches," the commissioner told the
millionaire. "Once in a dozen times, his hunches have merit. Therefore, it is
best to let him follow them, when they can cause no complications. But Cardona
will find nothing in Chinatown; for there is nothing there."
Apparently, Cranston was satisfied to accept Weston's opinion. Actually,
he agreed with it but partially.
The Shadow was willing to admit that Cardona might find nothing in
Chinatown; but that did not prove that trouble was absent in the Oriental
district. On the contrary, The Shadow's own observations had brought him to
the
very conclusion that Cardona had later reached.
From somewhere in Chinatown's depths, a menace had arisen. Outward
indications were but the ripples from that stir. Sooner or later, a surge
would
follow; that tidal wave might sweep far beyond the limits of Chinatown itself.
Among The Shadow's campaigns against crime, some of the most desperate
had
been those with a Chinese background. The symptoms of trouble that Cardona had
reported, were real ones. The Shadow was soon to have new proof of it.
For the present, The Shadow was willing to let Weston talk, hoping that
the commissioner might supply some further information. It came.
"CARDONA'S quest will get him nothing," confided Weston, "although it was
useless to tell him so. The government has already looked into these Chinese
matters."
"With what result?" was Cranston's quiet query.
"None," returned Weston. "The F.B.I. has assigned an undercover agent to
the job. Reports have been negative. The investigator has contacted certain
Chinese, but has gained no evidence of any criminal activities."
Rising from his desk, the commissioner clapped his friend on the
shoulder.
"Come, Cranston," he suggested. "We must be on our way. The most
important
item on our calendar is that banquet at the Cobalt Club. Jove! I hope that
Kent
Allard can manage to be there. I am anxious for you to meet the fellow."
Weston did not see the thin smile that rested momentarily upon the lips
of
Cranston. The commissioner's wish could not be realized, for a very definite
reason.
The Shadow's real identity, when he dropped the guise of Lamont Cranston,
was that of Kent Allard, aviator and explorer. That was why the two had never
met during functions at the Cobalt Club. One always happened to be absent when
the other was on hand.
Just as Weston was opening the door of his little office, a buzzer
announced a telephone call. Weston answered it; turned to his companion:
"It's for you, Cranston."
Across the wire, The Shadow heard the methodical tone of Burbank, the
contact man who communicated directly with The Shadow's active agents. Burbank
had double news concerning Harry Vincent: first, that the agent had not
reported; second, that he had passed a message to Hawkeye.
Burbank summarized it by repeating the words that Hawkeye had relayed.
The
Shadow heard them:
"The Golden Pagoda -"
Turned half away from Weston, The Shadow let his fingers press the hook
of
the desk telephone. A twice repeated click told Burbank that the report was
received. With the line closed, The Shadow spoke in Cranston's tone.
"All right, Richards" - there was a trace of impatience in Cranston's
drawl - "tell them to expect me in half an hour... No, call it an hour. That's
it - traffic may be heavy." Hanging up, Cranston faced Weston.
"I shall have to miss the banquet," he told the commissioner. "Richards,
my valet, tells me that unexpected guests have arrived at my New Jersey home.
I
must go there at once!"
Weston suggested that the guests could wait a while. Cranston did not
agree. They were friends from the Middle West, who had long promised to make a
visit. He would have to go home and meet them.
That was why Weston and his friend parted, outside the apartment house.
The commissioner entered an official car. Cranston stepped into a limousine.
Weston heard him order the chauffeur to drive to New Jersey.
THE order was changed, after a few blocks. The limousine headed for a
side
street near Times Square. There, Cranston transferred to a taxicab; spoke a
whispered command to the driver. Soon, that cab was speeding southward.
The lone passenger was crouched low in the rear seat. In the mirror of a
make-up kit, he was changing his facial appearance; building up the features
of
Cranston with a puttyish substance. Soon, the face showed no more than a faint
resemblance to The Shadow's former guise.
The make-up box went into a drawer beneath the rear seat. From that
space,
The Shadow removed a cloak and slouch hat. Those jet-black garments hid him,
when he donned them. A grim laugh whispered in the confines of the speeding
cab.
Clad in this attire, The Shadow would need no passport into Chinatown. He
would invade that sector silently, invisible, his arrival unguessed. Once
there, he might reveal himself; but it would be in a guise that no one would
suspect.
The Shadow was seeking the trail of the Golden Pagoda - the lure which he
knew had drawn Harry Vincent into deep disaster.
CHAPTER III
THE CHINESE TEA SHOP
SOME distance from the trapped curio shop where Harry Vincent had
disappeared, stood a tiny tea shop owned by a Chinaman named Wan Kew. Its
location marked the fringe of Chinatown; but beyond the tea shop lay a stretch
of narrow street that was very poorly lighted.
In a sense, that street was a borderland. Most of its ancient houses had
been deserted by their tenants, in the belief that Chinatown would soon
swallow
it. But the growth of the Chinese district had slowed. The street remained
obscure.
It was the sort of street where one would expect murders to be
perpetrated; but none had ever occurred there. That, possibly, was because
wise
wayfarers avoided the old street at night. That applied to Wan Kew, himself.
The proprietor of the tea shop was a cautious old Chinese, who had chosen
his location because the rental was low. Most of Wan Kew's customers bought
tea
in wholesale lots. He always advised them to go back toward the lighted center
of Chinatown, when they left his shop. Wan Kew always followed that direction
himself.
Wan Kew was thrifty, rather than rich. He had no helpers in his tea shop,
although he kept the place open from twelve to fifteen hours a day. Wan Kew
was
like a lonely sentinel, guarding Chinatown's last outpost. He could always be
seen from the doorway of his little shop, seated like a stuffed owl in front
of
shelves that were laden with chests of tea.
In all the years that he had been there, Wan Kew had never experienced
anything strikingly unusual, until tonight. He had not anticipated that his
placid existence was to undergo a sudden change. Indeed, Wan Kew suspected
nothing, when a messenger boy delivered a small, square-shaped package that
was
marked with Chinese characters.
Alone, Wan Kew placed the package on his counter. He peered through his
round-rimmed glasses, while his trembling old fingers carefully untied the
knots. Wan Kew always saved the strings from packages. He didn't change that
policy, even though he expected to find some special brand of tea inside.
Other
merchants frequently sent samples of such products for Wan Kew to pass upon.
The package did not contain tea. Wan Kew was surprised to find a stout
cardboard box, instead. He lifted the lid; his old eyes blinked. Complete
surprise showed on his wrinkled, saffron face.
In the box was a miniature pagoda, that had the deep rich hue of solid
gold.
It was gold! Wan Kew knew that, the moment he tested its weight. The
pagoda tilted in his hands, he saw its hollow interior, which proved the
heaviness of the metal. The space within the pagoda wasn't empty; but the
object that Wan Kew saw there, added nothing to its weight.
It was simply a sheet of rice paper, folded, like a note.
Wan Kew opened the message. The saffron color went from his wrinkled
face.
He was pale, almost to whiteness. The tremble of his hands seized his entire
body.
There was no threat mentioned in the note. It merely specified that Wan
Kew was to place the pagoda in the window of his tea shop; after that, to
ignore any questions that any one might ask concerning it.
The signature beneath the note was the cause of Wan Kew's fear. It was in
Chinese characters that the old tea merchant recognized. The name impressed
him
so hugely, that he gasped it, half aloud:
"Li Hoang!"
THE rice paper fluttered to the counter. Wan Kew gripped the woodwork.
Steadying himself, he finally managed strength enough to lift the Golden
Pagoda. Waddling to the front of the shop, he perched the rare object upon a
tea chest on the middle shelf.
Returning to his counter, Wan Kew plucked up the note. In the low light
of
the tea shop, its red-inked characters had the crimson hue of blood. That
thought brought new shivers to Wan Kew, particularly when he viewed the thick
signature of Li Hoang.
Sheer fear made Wan Kew scan the message again, to make sure that he had
missed no detail.
There was one added instruction: Wan Kew was to destroy the message, thus
leaving no evidence that he had heard from Li Hoang. The tea shop proprietor
was quite eager to obey that order.
Nevertheless, Wan Kew was wary.
Crumpling the sheet of rice paper, he stole to the door of the tea shop,
peered out along the darkened street. He saw no lurkers in the blackness that
lay away from Chinatown.
Staring in the opposite direction, Wan Kew spied only three persons. Two
were Chinese, walking toward a lighted street. The third was an American, who
was lighting a cigarette as he gazed into the window of a chop suey house.
Wan Kew went to the interior of his shop. He laid his hand upon a
doorknob
in back of the counter. He waited a moment; then twisted the door open and
sidled into a rear room.
There, at a battered desk that was flanked by old tea chests, Wan Kew
lighted a long wax taper. The wick sputtered; the flame wavered, casting long,
grotesque streaks of blackness. The gloom of the walls formed a frame for the
Chinaman's withery face. The light, burning upward, showed the twitch of Wan
Kew's lips and the fearful blinks of his owlish eyes.
Again, a tremor seized the Chinaman. He tiptoed into the darkness;
reached
the wall that backed the shelves behind his counter. Sliding a portion of the
wall, Wan Kew peered between tea chests, to make sure that no one had entered
his shop.
He saw a figure saunter past the outer doorway. It was the American who
had been at the chop suey house window. Satisfied that the stroller had
continued on his way, Wan Kew returned to the desk. The taper was burning
steadily. Wan Kew twisted the rice-paper note, started to insert it in the
flame.
A sound stopped him. Wan Kew was sure that he had heard a creak from the
door that connected with the front of the shop. He blinked in that direction;
saw a tall streak of blackness against the wall.
Wan Kew shivered, then decided that the patch was his own silhouette.
With an eager hiss, the old tea dealer let the flame lick the twisted
message. His lips formed a relieved sigh, as the fire took hold.
Wan Kew did not see the living blackness that swooped suddenly from
gloom.
A gloved hand gripped his wrist, hauled his arm away from the candlelight.
Before Wan Kew could twist free, he saw the muzzle of an automatic thrust
between his eyes. The hand left his wrist, to pluck the paper. Gloved fingers
extinguished the flame.
The candle glow showed the glint of burning eyes, beneath the brim of a
slouch hat. Wan Kew recognized the intruder; he gulped the name:
"Ying Ko!"
THAT title was the Chinese equivalent for The Shadow. It brought a
response from hidden lips. A grim laugh, whispered in the darkness, told Wan
Kew that he was not mistaken.
There was a tightness to Wan Kew's lips. He would not talk - not even to
The Shadow. Powerful though Ying Ko might be, Wan Kew feared Li Hoang more.
The logic was simple. Wan Kew, the innocent proprietor of an obscure tea
shop, had nothing to fear from The Shadow, who stood for right.
The name of Li Hoang, a synonym of evil, was one that could excite dread
from an honest man like Wan Kew.
The Shadow divined the thoughts that gripped Wan Kew. He could see the
pallor of the Chinaman's face, above the yellow robe that the fellow wore. He
knew that Wan Kew was acting under threat. Compressed lips were proof that the
Chinaman would not talk. But The Shadow knew that words would not be needed
from Wan Kew.
The Chinaman's terrified stare was directed toward the crinkled paper
that
The Shadow had captured, almost intact. That gaze told The Shadow that the
riddle could be solved by the paper itself.
Cloaking his automatic, The Shadow coolly unfolded the message. He read
the Chinese characters easily, much to the amazement of Wan Kew. When he saw
the name Li Hoang, The Shadow delivered an understanding whisper.
Since The Shadow had gained the truth, Wan Kew became voluble.
"Li Hoang is here!" Wan Kew was chattering in Chinese. "No one else would
dare use the name of Li Hoang! He is the master of all Chinese brigands. The
terrible Li Hoang!"
"You have seen Li Hoang?" The Shadow's question was in Wan Kew's own
dialect. "He has been here?"
"No. The message came within the pagoda, which I had never seen before. I
know nothing of Li Hoang!"
"Nor of those who serve him?"
A head shake from Wan Kew. Watching the tea dealer closely, The Shadow
inquired if he had ever heard of Chun Laro. The name was familiar to Wan Kew;
he admitted it, but added that he had never met Chun Laro.
Though Wan Kew did not realize it, he was revealing facts that he,
himself, did not know.
For the first time, The Shadow had uncovered a clue to a hidden
crime-master, who lurked deep in Chinatown. He knew the name of Li Hoang, most
celebrated of all Chinese bandits.
For years, Li Hoang had terrorized remote provinces of China; had
demanded
tribute from wealthy Chinese, and even officials. With the strengthening of
the
central government in China, Li Hoang's power had dwindled. Many had wondered
what had become of Li Hoang.
Here was evidence that China's public enemy had arrived secretly in
America. Such news accounted for the recent stir in Chinatown. Gifted with
subtle skill that no American racketeers possessed, Li Hoang was capable of
employing new and astonishing tactics, in this territory where his methods
were
unknown.
Such rogues as Chun Laro were the very sort that Li Hoang would require
as
lieutenants. Already, the evil influence of Li Hoang had crept far. Many
Chinese
of doubtful repute could already be in the service of Li Hoang.
THE SHADOW linked those possibilities with the Golden Pagoda. He could
see
the purpose of that symbol.
Planted in Chinatown, its location changed from time to time, the Golden
Pagoda could signify the meeting place where outside crooks were to make
contact. Wherever the pagoda was displayed, evil workers could leave messages,
perhaps booty, that were intended for Li Hoang.
Harry Vincent had learned that much tonight. He must have entered the
place where he saw the Golden Pagoda. That was why Harry had disappeared.
The delivery of the pagoda to Wan Kew was proof of Li Hoang's clever
tactics. Once captured, Harry had been classed as an agent of The Shadow.
Hence, Li Hoang had foreseen that The Shadow would search for the Golden
Pagoda.
To mislead The Shadow, Li Hoang had placed the golden object with a man
who knew nothing about the existing situation.
The choice of Wan Kew had been too strong a one. Of all Chinese
merchants,
Wan Kew was the last who would be sworn in as a member of a crooked
摘要：

THEGOLDENPAGODAbyMaxwellGrantAsoriginallypublishedin"TheShadowMagazine,"March1,1938.FromoutofChinacomesthemasterofallbrigands-LiHoang-tobattle,inNewYork'sChinatown,theMasterofDarkness-TheShadow!CHAPTERITHEVANISHEDCLUEMOTTSTREETformedalineofalluringglitter,whenthecumbersomeChinatownbusdisgorgeditscro...

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