The interior was as uninviting as the outside. Cleve’s supposition was right. The Sun Kew was a restaurant — or, rather, it had been a restaurant, and still preserved a shred of the resemblance. The place was populated by approximately a dozen Chinese, who sat at old tables in the large room.
Most of the men were drinking, and Cleve suspected that their beverage was the rice liquor relished by Chinese of the lower class. Some of those present were villainous-looking. One glance assured Cleve that none of the men who had attended the Wu-Fan meeting were here now.
Cleve had entered the room from a narrow hall. He did not know what lay up that darkened passage. He observed the doors of other, smaller rooms. But his chief attention was turned to the men about him.
Slipping into a chair at a corner table, Cleve avoided close inspection. He kept his eyes alert, turning his gaze occasionally to the door through which he had arrived.
It was several minutes before a tawdry waiter noted that an American had entered. He approached and addressed a few words in Chinese.
Cleve, responding with a shrug of his shoulders, indicated that he did not understand the language. The waiter retired. Cleve decided that the man had gone to inform someone who spoke English.
Under his coat, Cleve had packed a short-muzzled .38. It was his favorite weapon, that revolver. It had served him well on more than one occasion.
He had carried it to Ling Soo’s. He had brought it here; and now his fingers sought it. There might be trouble in this place. Still, the gun must be the last resort.
The waiter was returning. His face did not appear friendly. Again, the Chinaman spoke in his native tongue. A shoulder shrug was Cleve’s second answer.
The waiter signaled, and a man arose from a table close by. He came over and asked a question also. Cleve, half rising from his chair, now found himself in the center of a group of inquisitive Chinese.