The Cup of Confucious s-125

by Maxwell Grant

  The Cup of Confucious

  ( Shadow - 125 )

  Maxwell Grant

  Out of the dim past of ancient China comes the Cup of Confucius filled to the brim with modern intrigue and murder! Only The Shadow can fathom the mystery held within its priceless jade sides!

  THE CUP OF CONFUCIUS

  by Maxwell Grant

  As originally published in "The Shadow Magazine," May 1, 1937.

  Out of the dim past of ancient China comes the Cup of Confucius filled to the brim with modern intrigue and murder! Only The Shadow can fathom the mystery held within its priceless jade sides!

  CHAPTER I

  DYNAMITE I

  THE broad concrete approach leading to the New Jersey entrance of the Holland Tunnel was jammed with an orderly procession of automobiles as far as the eye could reach. Although the hour was late, the usual jam of tunnel traffic filled every lane with trucks and pleasure cars in a slow-moving, bewildering mass.

  Yet there was no confusion or excitement. Lights blazing overhead gave the

  scene the appearance of midday. The lines of traffic slowly converged, passed the ticket booths where busy cash registers tinkled. Cars roared down the smooth incline that led onward into the square maw of the tunnel. But in spite of the efficiency of the tunnel police, the waits were frequent. Drivers read papers or dozed, most of them bored and sleepy.

  Lamont Cranston, however, was wide awake. He sat behind the wheel of his imported, beautifully streamlined coupe and his hawklike eyes were alert and intelligent. It amused him that people stared with envy at his shining car, yet

  took no particular interest in him. It pleased Lamont Cranston to remain anonymous and unnoticed.

  For Lamont Cranston was The Shadow, mysterious avenger of crime. The Shadow, garbed in trailing cloak and slouch hat of black, roamed the reaches of

  the underworld ferreting out crime in his lair and bringing to justice those criminals who flouted the law! The name of The Shadow was a byword of terror in

  the far corners of crimedom!

  There was a real Lamont Cranston - a world traveler who spent most of his time exploring odd corners of the globe. Membership in New York City's exclusive Cobalt Club was his. He maintained also a palatial estate in New Jersey, but was seldom at home. Because of this, The Shadow at times adopted Cranston's personality and physical characteristics, thus being able to appear in public and gain knowledge of crime in the making that could not be his if he

  passed as The Shadow.

  TO-NIGHT, The Shadow in the guise of Cranston was returning from Cranston's New Jersey home. An obscure item on an inner page of the daily newspaper was responsible for The Shadow's decision. To an ordinary observer, the news item would have seemed unimportant, the routine story of a minor attempt at petty crime. The Shadow, however, sensed menace, conspiracy -

  perhaps a sensational murder - behind the bare facts of that small clipping.

  The Shadow uttered a grim, sibilant laugh as he sat in the midst of the stalled tunnel traffic. Again he read the item he had cut from the paper: TROUBLE AT SHADELAWN

  Quick wit and quicker action prevented an attempted burglary last night at

  Shadelawn, the magnificent estate of Arnold Dixon in the exclusive Pelham Bay section of New York City. An intruder, attempting to enter the window of Bruce Dixon, only son of the retired millionaire, was discovered and driven off by William Timothy with the help of Charles, the Dixon butler. Although numerous shots were fired at the fleeing crook he succeeded in escaping.

  A peculiar fact in the case is that Dixon's son Bruce was unaware of the burglar's presence until he heard the shooting, although he was in his room playing solitaire when the attempt occurred. William Timothy, who is Dixon's lawyer and an old friend of the millionaire, was unable to identify the crook from police photographs; but Charles, the butler, picked out "Spud" Wilson as the man whom he and Timothy had fired at. Detectives Cohen and Maloy have been assigned to the case.

  This is the second time in recent months that Shadelawn has appeared in the news. Three months ago Bruce Dixon returned home after a prolonged absence of ten years due to a violent quarrel with his millionaire father. Efforts to discover the reason for the quarrel and the recent reconciliation were fruitless. Neither Arnold Dixon nor his son would consent to an interview.

  Through his lawyer Timothy, the aged millionaire declined to discuss what he termed his "personal and private affairs."

  The Shadow placed the clipping back in his wallet. The cars ahead of him were beginning to move. He drove slowly past the toll booth, and a moment later

  was whizzing swiftly through the electric-lighted whiteness of the tiled tunnel

  that led under the mud of the Hudson River to the pulsing streets of distant Manhattan.

  A single fact glowed like flame in the keen mind of The Shadow. "Spud"

  Wilson, the "burglar" who had tried to enter the mansion of Arnold Dixon, was no burglar at all! He was a cleverer and more dangerous type of rogue than that. Spud was a daring confidence man, a shrewd swindler. He worked only at jobs where millions were involved.

  What, then, was his purpose in sneaking into the grounds of Shadelawn?

  And

  why did he risk bullets and death by pretending to be a common sneak thief?

  The Shadow intended to find out the true answer to his puzzle. Some one was manipulating the clever Spud for purposes far more important than the routine robbery of a millionaire's mansion.

  The Shadow was hastening to his sanctum to-night. He wanted to study certain documents his agents had collected. Those documents referred not only to Arnold Dixon and his recently returned son; they concerned also William Timothy, the millionaire's lawyer and Charles, his butler.

  Hidden in his sanctum in an old building in the heart of New York, its whereabouts known but to himself, The Shadow would study and ponder the significance of these accurate reports. From the knowledge thus gained he would

  know before morning just what course to pursue.

  The Shadow's first hint of danger came as he exited from the tunnel and drove swiftly northward along Varick Street.

  An automobile was parked at the curb, and beyond the motionless car was the weedy expanse of an unfenced vacant lot. Instantly The Shadow slowed his speed, his glance rigidly alert. He was interested not in the parked car, not in the vacant lot. He was watching the face and figure of a man.

  The Shadow, as Cranston, took a quick searching look at that distant figure as his coupe idled past the vacant lot and rolled onward to the corner.

  The man he noticed had just emerged from the side door of a brick building that

  adjoined the lot. He was hurrying stealthily across the lot toward the sidewalk

  where the car was parked.

  For barely an instant, his face was illuminated by the light above the doorway of the brick building. But that instant was sufficient for the keen eye

  and the alert memory of The Shadow to combine in a swift guess of the fellow's probable identity.

  The man was Spud Wilson! The shrewd crook who had so recently attempted to

  burglarize the home of Arnold Dixon!

  THE SHADOW acted without delay. His coupe shot around the corner and came to a quick halt. A moment later the car was braked and locked, and The Shadow was returning to make sure that his guess was a true one.

  He crossed Varick Street and his step slackened. He managed to time himself so that he walked abreast of the suspect just as the latter emerged from the weedy lot and began to hurry toward the curb where the parked automobile had first attracted The Shadow's attention.

  In the suave manner of Lamont Cranston, The Shadow, was holdin
g an unlighted cigarette in his slim, muscular fingers. He smiled gently, said with an apologetic murmur:

  "I beg your pardon, sir. I wonder if you might let me have a match?"

  "Huh? Oh, sure!"

  The Shadow saw to it that he was between the man and the curb. He remained

  there as he struck a match hastily and held the yellow flame to the end of his cigarette. He didn't attempt to cup the flame. He held it so that the light shone full into the face of the pedestrian, who was now scowling at him with a look of frowning suspicion.

  The man was Spud Wilson. No doubt of it at all. Narrow, pinched eyes, thin

  slash of a mouth, a pale, bumpy forehead. His words as well as his appearance proved The Shadow's deduction.

  He said in a low, menacing whisper: "What's the idea of staring at me, mister? You're not a city dick or I'd know you. What are you - a government man?"

  "Not at all. I'm merely a private citizen borrowing a match. If you'll excuse me, I'll be moving along. Thank you for the accommodation."

  Wilson's hand reached out, caught Cranston by the wrist. "Wait a minute, pal! You ain't kidding me! What's the idea of trailing me?"

  His hand jerked from under his coat. The Shadow saw the dull gleam of an automatic. He hadn't expected so savage a move from a confidence man.

  No flame spat from the muzzle of the pistol, but as Wilson pivoted on his toes, the barrel of his weapon whizzed like a glittering club and struck The Shadow a glancing blow on the temple that sent his hat flying and made him stagger off balance.

  The next instant The Shadow's own gun was in his hand. But the strangely unexpected assault of Spud Wilson was followed by a terrified and equally strange flight. He whirled away, ran straight for his car at the curb.

  He was behind the wheel, his foot fumbling toward the starter pedal, before The Shadow could gather his muscles and sprint across the sidewalk.

  The brief delay in pursuit was all that saved The Shadow's life. He saw the sinuous length of wire attached to the starter pedal. He saw the wire jerk as Wilson's foot jammed down hard.

  The Shadow threw himself face downward on the sidewalk. As he did so the car, the curb - the very street itself - erupted into a pillar of flame. The thunderous roar of an explosion filled the air like the vicious boom of a field

  gun.

  Blinded, his ears buzzing from the enormous wind-pressure of the blast, The Shadow groaned. He could feel a white-hot pain in his side and knew dully that a flying chunk of metal from the dynamited automobile had ripped past his body just below the curve of his ribs. He could feel the warm gush of blood, as

  he rolled dazedly to his knees and staggered to his feet.

  A smoking heap of wreckage lay scattered along the blackened pavement. A few bloody tatters of clothing were all that was left of the unfortunate Spud Wilson. Some one had planned for that desperate crook to die! Some one who had deliberately planted dynamite in the parked car and wired the starter to a detonating cap!

  THE SHADOW divined all this as he fell weakly to the pavement and again clawed himself to his feet. He heard the screams of women, the hoarse shouts of

  terrified men.

  "There he goes! That's one of them now!"

  The yell restored The Shadow's ebbing strength. He had no desire to he halted and questioned. Around the corner was his own car, with a suitcase inside that contained the complete disguise of The Shadow - that would change him from Lamont Cranston to his original identity. To be caught now would be to

  have his secret betrayed, his mysterious identity forever ruined.

  He raced desperately around the corner. Before the wildly excited neighborhood knew clearly what was happening, a sleek coupe was vanishing in a droning whine of high power.

  A voice screamed thinly far behind him: "A Jersey car! Get the license number!"

  The Shadow laughed.

  His hand reached toward the dash and jerked at a small knob that looked like a choke. It wasn't. Apparently nothing happened. But The Shadow was leaving nothing to chance. By his quick gesture he had changed the license number on the rear of the car. The plate was no longer the same. It was now yellow and black. A New York license!

  The Shadow's jerk at the knob in the dash had allowed the fake plate to slip downward from beneath a patent-leather covering just above where the real license had been suspended.

  The Shadow was no longer Lamont Cranston. A black slouch hat covered his forehead and shaded the piercing eyes. Black gloves covered his lean hands. In spite of the throbbing agony of his wound, he had slipped into his disguise with sure dexterity. His safety now depended on speed and cleverness. He knew he had to reach a safe haven before he collapsed.

  He slackened speed. Biting his lips to keep from fainting, he drove as fast as he dared to the spot he had in mind from the very moment he knew he was

  hurt.

  His goal was a dark doorway on a quiet and sedate street in residential Manhattan. He shut off his motor and locked the car, taking the key with him.

  Staggering he managed to climb a short flight of steps and press a bell button.

  Over the bell was a small bronze plate that read: "RUPERT SAYRE, M.D."

  The Shadow felt unconsciousness flooding over him. But he had will enough to turn with a last effort and satisfy himself that no one had observed him leave the car at the curb and climb the stoop to the doctor's private office.

  It was his final coherent thought. His body crumpled in a limp heap.

  THE SHADOW was lying thus when the door opened. A keen-faced man peered, saw the unconscious figure and uttered a quick exclamation.

  "Good heavens! It's - it's he!"

  He turned and shouted a tense order to some one inside the door. "Quick!

  Give me a hand! Get this man inside in a hurry!"

  A man in the white jacket of an intern appeared hastily. He said no word at all. He was too well-trained for that.

  Together he and Doctor Rupert Sayre lifted The Shadow and carried him inside the quiet house. The door shut with a discreet click. For a few moments,

  there was silence outside. Then again the door opened. This time, the intern in

  the white coat appeared alone. He carried a basin of warm water, a sponge and soap.

  There were bloody smears on the stone where The Shadow had fallen. They disappeared without delay.

  Rupert Sayre was more than an alert young surgeon. He was a man with a grim hatred for crime and criminals. The Shadow trusted him as one of his most competent agents.

  In the gifted hands of Doctor Rupert Sayre the bleeding body of The Shadow

  would be given competent treatment under conditions of absolute secrecy.

  CHAPTER II

  TROUBLE AT SHADELAWN

  NO one had noticed the arrival of The Shadow at the modest brownstone office of Doctor Rupert Sayre. But if some one had - and had waited on the sidewalk for two full days in order to witness the manner of The Shadow's departure - that observer would have been a very puzzled man.

  For The Shadow never did leave Sayre's office!

  The gentleman who departed under cover of darkness on a cold, windy evening had the features of Lamont Cranston. In his hand he carried a light leather bag. Inside it was a black robe, a broad-brimmed slouch hat, gloves and

  certain other articles that formed an indispensable part of The Shadow's necessary equipment.

  The Shadow walked quietly to a near-by garage, unlocked the coupe in which

  he had escaped from the scene of the blast. He drove northward through the city.

  His driving was careful, as befits a man who has had a narrow escape from death. The wound in his side had not been as deep or as dangerous as Doctor Sayre had at first feared. The flying fragment of metal from Spud Wilson's dynamited automobile had inflicted a shallow, bloody gouge rather than imbedding itself deeply into the flesh. That fact, plus Sayre's skill and the splendid vitality in The Shadow's lean body, accounted for his miraculous reappearance
behind the wheel of his high-powered coupe.

  A stiff corsetlike band of adhesive tape made Lamont Cranston's figure sit

  somewhat slantingly behind the wheel. That and the unusual pallor of his lean cheeks were the only indications of a desperate adventure that had filled the newspapers with screaming headlines.

  Who had planted the dynamite that had blown that parked car to pieces?

  And

  why? As yet, The Shadow had no answer to either question. But he matched those two unanswered questions with two accurate facts that only he, himself, knew.

  The first was that the bloody tatters of rags that were found in the wreck

  of a stolen car on Varick Street were all that was left of a sly crook named Spud Wilson. The second fact was that the answer to the outrage seemed to point

  very definitely to the mansion of Arnold Dixon in Pelham Bay. The "burglary,"

  which had first excited The Shadow's attention, was very evidently a cover-up for something far more sinister and murderous.

  It was toward the mansion of Arnold Dixon that The Shadow was now driving.

  His plan was simple. He had an overwhelming desire to meet, observe and study at

  close range this eccentric millionaire. He wanted to talk to Bruce, the recently

  returned son.

  He hoped to observe the butler and - if possible - William Timothy, the millionaire's lawyer. The Shadow was aware that the latter was a friend of Dixon's of long standing. Nearly every night the two played chess together and drank a glass of port.

  The Shadow had already arranged a plausible excuse to explain his visit.

  In his inner pocket was a letter of introduction from the curator of ceramics of the Museum of Art. Lamont Cranston was an amateur collector of Chinese pottery of no mean reputation. He had even written a monograph or two on the subject. Hence The Shadow had no trouble obtaining the letter of introduction from the curator and he expected no trouble in getting into Dixon's home.

  Dixon's private collection was the largest and best in the country. He was

  proud of it. He took a childish delight in showing off some of his rarer pieces