“What happens to the letters that go in that mail chute is a mystery to me. But I know that we will receive a reply within one hour.”
Vincent stared wonderingly at the speaker, and Fellows added a further explanation.
“I have told you this with a purpose, Vincent. The methods of the man we call The Shadow are unfathomable. He is entirely unconcerned about any methods you, I, or anyone else may use in an attempt to discover his identity. To him, we are no more than children. I discovered that some time ago; I am giving you the information to save you further useless effort.”
Vincent stroked his chin in speculation.
“Do you mind if I ask you a few questions, Mr. Fellows?”
“Ask me any question you wish,” replied the insurance broker.
“Have you ever seen The Shadow?” quizzed Vincent.
“I don’t know.”
“Does he live here in New York?”
“I don’t know.”
“What is his purpose in life?”
“I don’t know.”
“Is he a crook?”
“I don’t know.”
“Is he on the side of the law?”
“I don’t know.”
Vincent laughed, and even Fellows indulged in a serious smile.
“You see, Vincent,” said the insurance broker, in an affable tone, “I know very little. I receive messages from The Shadow, and I reply to them. What he writes to me and what I write to him is all forgotten. Remember the answer I have given to your questions. Those three words, ‘I don’t know’ are often useful.”
“You’re right,” admitted Vincent. “I’ll remember them.”
“You will excuse me for a while,” requested Fellows. “Make yourself at home, while I attend to a few business matters.”
Vincent stared from the window and watched the crowds on the streets below, while Fellows used the telephone to discuss insurance with various clients.
This whole experience was a puzzle to Vincent, and he wondered what was next in store for him. He still felt that the Chinese disk which lay on Fellows’ desk was a most important item in whatever was developing.
The minutes went by, and Vincent waited patiently. He was beginning to realize that the ability to be patient was one of the most important duties expected of him.
He glanced at his watch: it registered half past eleven, and he wondered if the reply to Fellows’ message would come as soon as the chubby insurance broker expected it.
The stenographer had returned at least a half an hour before; and the door to the outer room was open.
A messenger boy entered the outer office, bearing an envelope. The stenographer signed for it and brought it in to Fellows’ desk. The insurance man was busy at the phone, and paid no attention to the envelope for five minutes. Then he rose leisurely and closed the door to the outer office.
He picked up the envelope, unfolded a letter, and stood by the window reading, while Vincent watched him curiously. The chubby man had donned his spectacles, but when he had finished his perusal of the letter, he removed his glasses and looked at Vincent.
“I have an explanation for you,” he said. “I am instructed to inform you regarding certain matters which have puzzled you. First, we will discuss the Chinese disk, and the man named Scanlon.
“Scanlon came from San Francisco. He was to take the disk to a Chinese named Wang Foo, today, at three o’clock. You are to go in Scanlon’s place.
“You will say nothing to Wang Foo. Simply show him the disk, and he will give you a sealed package. You will bring that package here to me.
“Two men besides Scanlon knew the purpose of that disk. One of them was Steve Cronin. He has left New York. The other, a gangster called Croaker, was killed last night. Somehow, his associates learned that he had double-crossed them. They murdered him, and he had no opportunity to mention the matter of the Chinese disk, even if he had intended to do so.
“In order that your journey may be safe, you will enter a taxicab at the corner of Forty-fifth Street and Broadway at exactly two o’clock this afternoon. It will be a green cab, and you will recognize it by the chauffeur, who will be wearing a cap with a green band.
“The cab will carry you to a Chinese tea shop. Enter and pass through to the rear. Ask to see Wang Foo. Upon leaving the tea shop with the package, you will find the same cab awaiting you. It will bring you back to the corner of Forty-fifth Street and Broadway. From there, you must come here immediately.”
“What instructions shall I give the cab driver?” questioned Vincent.
“Any that you please,” replied Fellows. “He will simply follow the orders that he has already received.”
The insurance broker picked up the disk and gave it to Vincent, who replaced it in his vest pocket. Fellows opened the door, conducted Vincent through the outer office.
“Sorry I can’t have lunch with you, Vincent,” said the insurance broker. “I’ll see you later. Good-by, old chap.”
In his hand, Fellows still held the mysterious letter; but up to this moment, Vincent had had no opportunity to see its written side. Now, as the door was closing, something happened that caused Vincent to stand in the hallway, gaping in astonishment.
Fellows had carelessly turned his hand so that the written side of the letter was directly toward Vincent’s eyes. And as the young man had unconsciously sought to scrutinize the writing, he had been amazed to observe that the letter was a blank sheet of paper!
CHAPTER VIII
THE TEA SHOP OF WANG FOO
The taxicab was rolling through the side streets of Manhattan. Harry Vincent wondered where it was carrying him. For half an hour the driver had been following a circling, twisting course that seemed to lead nowhere.
Vincent had hailed the cab at the stroke of two o’clock. He had recognized the green band on the driver’s hat. He had given instructions to be taken to the Grand Central Station, and the cab driver had not followed his orders. That was proof enough that Vincent was in the right cab.
He had looked for the familiar card that is in every New York cab, showing the driver’s picture and his name. There was no such card in this cab. It had evidently been removed.
He had found himself wondering who the driver might be. Another agent of The Shadow? Perhaps it was The Shadow himself! The man was wearing a coat with a large collar, and the top of the coat had been turned up so that only the tip of his nose was in view.
Whoever the man might be, he was familiar with the city, for the cab had made so many turns and twists that Vincent had given up wondering where he might be.
He knew, though, that the driver was not trying to confuse him; for any street-corner sign might give the correct location. It was obvious that the man at the wheel was making sure that no car was following the cab.
The Chinese disk was still safely imbedded in Vincent’s pocket. He felt the tiny talisman and speculated upon its importance. By merely showing this he was to receive a package - a package which he must bring back to Fellows, the insurance broker.
That would be easy. He could not see any danger impending. Yet the mysterious course of the cab indicated that the mission might not be a safe one.
Glancing at his watch, Vincent noted that it was nearly three o’clock. That was the hour of his appointment with Wang Foo - the appointment he was to keep in place of the murdered Scanlon. Evidently the dead shoe salesman was not known to the Chinese tea merchant. The disk alone would be accepted as his badge of identity.
Finally the cab pulled up in front of a squalid building on the edge of Chinatown. The driver opened the door,
