The Cup of Confucious s-125

by Maxwell Grant

  Shadow was able to catch a glimpse of his averted face.

  Was it Bruce Dixon? This was the thought that made The Shadow stiffen. In poundage and height the figure had seemed remarkably similar to the millionaire's mysteriously vanished son.

  The Shadow was lifting one well-shod foot across the sill of the window when from the corridor beyond the library he heard the unmistakable sound of a man coughing. Instantly, he abandoned his plan to slip out and have a look at the grounds. Hooley and Snaper were leaving! Charles, afraid to disobey Cranston's orders, was warning him of that fact.

  The Shadow lowered the window. He left it unlocked. He hurried from the library to the front hall, just in time to intercept Arnold Dixon and his two departing visitors.

  Glibly, The Shadow explained that he had changed his mind. He had remembered a previous appointment that would make it impossible for him to remain and view Dixon's collection of pottery.

  As he talked he managed to bump slightly against Joe Snaper His sharp eyes

  had detected something that jammed up the flap of Snaper's coat pocket. It was the leather top of a large bill fold.

  To slip it unnoticed from Snaper's pocket was child's play for The Shadow.

  It was palmed in his deft hand, shielded by the width of his body as he turned with a sudden amused acclamation.

  "Bless my soul!" he said in Cranston's drawl. "I must have left my fountain pen in the library. Excuse me."

  He was gone instantly, leaving Dixon and the two visitors staring at each other. He knew that his hasty withdrawal was most welcome to all three. They had been talking in low whispers when he had hurried out to intercept them.

  Undoubtedly, they'd need a minute or more to finish whatever they had been talking about.

  A minute was all The Shadow needed.

  He hurried alone into the library, laid his fountain pen on the table for a blind in case he was followed. With his back to the doorway, he opened the stolen bill fold with a swift gesture.

  The sight of its contents made The Shadow smile with stony satisfaction.

  There was a check in the side pocket of the bill fold. It was drawn to

  "Cash." And it was signed by Arnold Dixon.

  The check was for one thousand dollars.

  CHAPTER IV

  FORCES OF EVIL

  THE SHADOW'S glance at the check was but a momentary dart of his keen eyes. It sufficed, however, to crowd his brain with definite answers to some of

  the things that had puzzled him. The fact that a check of so large an amount could be drawn to cash and honored at a bank, indicated that the bank officials

  were familiar with such a procedure. This was obviously not the first check paid

  by Dixon to his two ugly visitors.

  Blackmail! There could be no other deduction.

  The Shadow formulated a plan at once.

  He left the library, walked quietly back through the corridor to the main entry. He dropped the wallet close to the wall as he passed the console table.

  A search later would easily find it. Snaper and Hooley were still conversing in

  whispers with the millionaire.

  "Find your fountain pen, pal?" Snaper asked.

  Hooley didn't say anything, but his whole manner was unmistakably hostile.

  The Shadow excused himself, promised vaguely to come beck at some later date to view Dixon's rare collection.

  He walked slowly down the curving path that led from the mansion toward the distant entrance of the grounds. The moment he had rounded the first turn and was sure that the shaggy bushes concealed him from view of the house, his dawdling manner changed to one of purposeful speed. He darted from the path, began to hurry swiftly through the darkness.

  He remembered the exact spot where he had left his car. He ran diagonally toward the stone wall that divided the thick shrubbery from the road outside.

  In an instant, he was over the wall.

  He found the green glade where his car was concealed and entered the powerful little coupe. A moment or two later, he emerged again. But not as Lamont Cranston. The figure that crossed the road swiftly and ran toward the stone wall would have sent superstitious shivers up and down the spines of Hooley and Snaper.

  Inky-black from head to foot, hands encased in black gloves, a slouch hat drawn low over deep-set eyes that burned like steady reddish flame, The Shadow reclimbed the wall and dropped noiselessly to the dark turf inside.

  The Shadow moved with the swift silence of an Indian. Suddenly he halted.

  Ahead of him he could see the bent back of a man.

  The man was crouched behind a dark bush, peering intently through the spread leaves that gave him a good view of the curving path that led toward Arnold Dixon's door The watchful face turned slightly and The Shadow caught a revealing glimpse of a tense profile.

  It was Bruce Dixon!

  THE SHADOW didn't delay. He made a cunning detour and passed the silent watcher without betraying his presence. He hadn't returned to spy on Bruce.

  That would come later. The two blackmailers were the men who now interested The

  Shadow.

  His circling approach brought him almost to the front door of the mansion.

  Flat on the damp grass behind a spreading bush, he waited.

  Feet came pounding down the gravel path from the gate where the two blackmailers had parked their car. It was Hooley and Snaper and they were cursing with rage. They ran straight for the front door, which had closed behind them only a few moments before. They began to ring the bell and pound on

  the oaken panel with angry fists.

  The Shadow smiled. He had expected this little drama! The crooks had discovered that the wallet and the thousand-dollar check was missing. A show-down with Arnold Dixon was in the making.

  Dixon himself opened the door. He quailed as Hooley shook a vicious fist under his nose.

  "Gentlemen, what - what in the world is wrong?"

  "You know damned well what's wrong!" Snaper rejoined. "You stole that wallet with the check! We want it back quick - or else!"

  "I stole my own check? I don't understand."

  "No? You picked my pocket, wise guy! Where's that check? Hand it over!"

  Arnold Dixon recovered his wits. "Don't be a fool," he said, harshly.

  "Why

  should I do that? You've undoubtedly dropped the wallet accidentally in the foyer or in the library corridor. Please, gentlemen, be quiet. Come inside quickly!"

  The two thugs shouldered in and the massive door closed. The Shadow rose swiftly, peered back at the grounds. If the lurking Bruce Dixon had heard he disturbance, he gave no sign of his presence.

  The Shadow rounded the stone corner of the mansion. He glided toward the wing in which the library was located. He pushed up a gentle inch or two the window which he had unlocked when he was in the room previously. He had barely accomplished his purpose when Arnold Dixon and his two visitors entered the room.

  A trailing length of leafy vine hit The Shadow's prying eyes. He saw that Snaper had already found his lost wallet, as The Shadow had intended him to do.

  The rogue was waving the leather fold in one hand, the check in the other.

  Hooley was the calmer of the two.

  He said, grimly: "Don't try to kid us, mister. You picked Joe's pocket.

  Try to double-cross us!"

  His face deathly pale, Arnold Dixon denied any idea of theft or treachery.

  He pointed out that the wallet had been found lying on the floor under the table, where it had undoubtedly fallen accidentally from Snaper's pocket when he brushed against the edge of the furniture.

  Snaper cursed the millionaire with fluent rage. "How would you like Bert and me to go see some cops - and talk? I mean talk plenty!"

  "No, no," Dixon moaned. "Not that, gentlemen - don't do that!"

  "Then don't try any more foxy tricks like you tried to-night." Hooley grunted. "A thousand bucks twice a month is cheap for a guy as w
ealthy as you.

  Especially when he's a guy who could go to jail for -"

  THE SHADOW was leaning forward, his ear intent on not missing a single word inside the room. A sound behind him made him spring abruptly away, turning

  on his heel with a lithe movement.

  The sound he had heard was the snap of a dry twig. The next instant, dark bushes parted and a man came plunging at him. So swift and deadly was the attack that The Shadow's hand was caught midway as he reached for an automatic.

  A muscular heave threw The Shadow to the soft grass. He rolled over and over, trying to squirm out of the clutch of his powerful assailant.

  Dazed, The Shadow fought for his life. He saw a gun come whizzing down toward his skull. He managed to duck away and avoid the bone-crushing blow, but

  at the cost of a sharp, tearing pain in his side.

  The wound he had suffered two nights ago from the explosion on Varick Street was beginning to bleed again. He could feel the sticky warmth. Strength seemed to ooze out of his body with the flowing blood.

  His assailant caught him by the throat. The eyes of The Shadow were bulging now. His tortured mouth gaped wide. He could see the grim face of his enemy glaring close to his. It was a man The Shadow had never seen before.

  Tiny, pin-point eyes under a curiously white forehead and brown, tousled hair.

  A pointed brown beard. Teeth as even and white as a woman's.

  The Shadow's head lunged downward. He clamped his teeth on the flesh of the man's wrist. He heard a shrill, animal-like scream and the pressure on his throat relaxed for an instant. As The Shadow took a staggering step, "Brown Beard" was on him again like a flash.

  But an interruption came from an unexpected quarter. The library window flew wide open. Framed in the opening were the tense faces of Snaper and Hooley. They came leaping out to the soft turf, guns glittering in their hands.

  Brown Beard whirled to meet this new threat. His gun flamed. The bullet missed Snaper by an inch and sent him diving headlong to the ground. Hooley had

  leaped aside as he saw the flash. His gun jerked level as Brown Beard hurdled the fallen Snaper and jumped at him. The gun in Hooley's hand exploded once -

  twice - but the bullets screamed harmlessly upward toward the dark sky.

  Both men had a double grip on the swaying gun and were wrestling fiercely for its possession. Snaper started to rise from the ground to come to his partner's assistance. A back-heel kick of the brown-bearded man caught him full

  in the throat and tumbled him flat again.

  The Shadow waited to see no more of the death struggle. He began to run in

  an erratic line through the dense shrubbery. He was desperately weak from his reopened wound and knew he was on the verge of collapsing.

  The cold air on his face revived him. Already, he could see the dark roughness of the stone wall, when he heard a warning cry.

  "Halt, or I'll shoot!"

  Bruce Dixon was almost directly in The Shadow's path, rising ghostlike from a patch of weedy darkness. The gun in his hand was rigid, pointed like an ominous steel finger.

  THE SHADOW'S movement was purely instinctive. He bent, and his hand closed

  over a pebble as large as a walnut. He threw the round, hard stone with all his

  strength.

  His aim was good. The missile flew toward Bruce in a straight line and struck him squarely on the forehead.

  Bruce was stunned by the numbing blow. The gun slipped from his fingers and he slid to his knees. He was not unconscious, but he was too dazed for the moment to do more than grope feebly for the weapon that lay in the grass at his

  feet.

  The Shadow resumed his flight toward the wall. The rough stones helped him

  to gain a hasty foothold and to swarm upward to the broad top. He rolled across

  and dropped headlong to the road outside.

  He could hear the thud of Bruce's pursuing feet. Sprinting into the bushes

  across the road, The Shadow reached the sheltered spot where he had left his speedy coupe. A wrench of his black-gloved hand and the door flew open.

  An instant later, the motor was pulsing. The car backed out of concealment

  onto the road. The Shadow's foot jammed hard on the gas pedal. The powerful car

  responded. It was racing down the road when the face of Bruce Dixon appeared above the top of the wall.

  His gun flamed again and again. The noise of the shots was inaudible to The Shadow. The roar of the pulsing engine was like a blanket covering the barks of the pistol.

  The Shadow's eyes veered briefly backward, as a turn in the road hid him from sight of his enemy. Faint laughter came from his pain-tightened lips.

  Two facts became clear in his mind as he left the estate of Arnold Dixon far behind. Bruce Dixon was not as innocent as he had seemed at first. He was part of some vicious conspiracy against his father. And the conspiracy itself was a double one.

  Two forces of evil were fighting each other back in the darkness of that lonely and secluded estate on Pelham Bay. Hooley and Snaper were on one side, perhaps with the aid of Bruce. Brown Beard was on the other.

  To-morrow the newspapers would carry another brief "burglary" item. Or perhaps no news at all. The two rival gangs would flee to cover. Arnold Dixon would attempt to hush up the whole affair.

  Only The Shadow knew!

  His goal was his secret sanctum, where a private telephone wire linked him

  with trained agents who were eager to do his bidding. At the other end of that wire, night and day, was the calm voice of Burbank, The Shadow's trusted contact man.

  The coupe roared onward through the night.

  CHAPTER V

  THE SULPHUR CANDLE

  LATE afternoon sunshine was staining the windows of Manhattan with a ruddy

  blaze when Clyde Burke sauntered into the lobby of the Brentwood Hotel. He went

  straight to the desk, smiling as he noted that the clerk on duty was a man who had good reason to be grateful to Clyde for past newspaper favors.

  Clyde Burke, of the Classic, was a reporter, one of the smartest in the city. He was more than that. Unknown to his editor, he was a loyal agent of The

  Shadow. The night before, he had received from the quiet lips of Burbank an order, which he had faithfully carried out. That, order was to pick up the trail of Joe Snaper and Bert Hooley. He had succeeded.

  He was entering the Brentwood Hotel for purposes connected with a camera that was jammed in the side pocket of his overcoat. He did not tell the clerk at the desk what his real purpose was. He lied smoothly and efficiently.

  The fact that Clyde was a well-known reporter made the yarn easy to put across. He told the friendly clerk that he was after an exclusive financial story for his paper.

  Two Western business men, Bert Hooley and Joe Snaper, were secretly in town to meet an Eastern executive and sign a huge mining contract without the knowledge of the financial houses in Wall Street. Clyde wanted a photographic scoop for his newspaper. He asked the desk clerk to telephone upstairs and tell

  Snaper and Hooley they were wanted in the lobby.

  "Why can't you follow them and photograph them on the street?" the clerk protested, uneasily.

  "That's impossible," Clyde said.

  He didn't explain why. The truth of the matter was that he was not interested in the faces of Snaper and Hooley. He wanted an opportunity to get clear pictures of their hands, the fingers - particularly the tips of the fingers.

  The orders of The Shadow had explicit on this point. Faces of criminals change with the passing years. The Shadow had been unable to identify Snaper and Hooley from pictures in his private files. He wanted finger prints and his efforts had been balked so far by a strange and significant fact.

  Both the suspects wore gloves when ever they left the hotel. So far, there

  had been no opportunity to obtain specimen finger prints of the wily pair to be

  compared with the
prints on record in Washington.

  "Well?" Clyde whispered to the clerk. "Will you help me? Don't forget the favors I've done for you."

  "Okay. But for Heaven's sake don't let them see you!"

  He turned toward the room phone and spoke briefly into the instrument.

  There was a long pause. Then he shrugged.

  "Sorry. Can't help you to-day, Clyde. They're not in their room."

  "Are you sure?" Clyde looked puzzled. He himself had seen both crooks enter the side door of the hotel barely a half hour earlier and go upstairs in the elevator.

  They couldn't have left without his knowledge. He was certain of it, in spite of the fact that the clerk turned to the key and showed him the room key hanging idly on its hook.

  CLYDE BURKE left the hotel lobby. But he didn't walk very far from the vicinity of the hotel. He merely turned the corner, hurried up the street and came back through the side entrance.

  He wondered why Snaper or Hooley hadn't answered that telephone call from the desk. Evidently they had made for themselves a duplicate room key taken from a wax impression of the original one on the hook downstairs. That would make it easier for them to come and go without creating any particular attention.

  Frowning, Clyde patted the camera that was tucked inside his coat pocket.

  He took the elevator - a rear one near the street corridor - and got off at the

  eighth floor. This was the floor where Hooley and Snaper had reserved their expensive double room. The number was 829.

  Clyde Burke sauntered past, his slow, careful steps making no sounds on the thick carpet. The corridor was deserted.

  He dropped to one knee outside the quiet closed door of Room 829.

  Instantly, he made a rather alarming discovery. The keyhole was plugged with cotton. So was the crack between the bottom of the door and the threshold.

  Clyde got swiftly back to his feet. Because of his intimate knowledge of the Brentwood Hotel, he knew exactly what to do.

  Striding hastily toward the far end of the corridor, turning right-angled into the adjoining corridor and running to its end, he began to shove upward at