The Cup of Confucious s-125

by Maxwell Grant

  underground cave with spine-tingling abruptness.

  Clyde Burke whirled instinctively. He saw a girl bending over a motionless

  huddle on the floor. The huddle was Bruce Dixon. The girl was - Edith Allen.

  Clyde had barely recognized her when he felt a powerful fist strike him between his shoulder blades. The blow knocked him from his feet. As he fell he heard the whistling rip of a bullet a scant inch above his head. Timothy had fired with the speed of desperation.

  But The Shadow's action had been faster still. He had seen the guns of Rodney and Timothy jerk level. A sidelong blow sent his agent plunging head-first out of the path of death. His other gun took care of Rodney.

  A scarlet dot appeared just below Rodney's left eye. He fell forward, and the weight of his dead body struck The Shadow's knee and knocked him off balance.

  In that second, Timothy recovered from his futile shot at Clyde. The muzzle of the crooked lawyer's gun pointed straight at The Shadow's throat.

  But

  even as the gun spat, there was a queer, convulsive, jerk of Timothy's wrist.

  The bullet nicked the ear lobe of The Shadow, instead of ripping his jugular apart.

  Timothy stared dully, as though puzzled by his miss. Blood gushed from his

  own throat. He died before he knew what had happened. He was unaware of Clyde, hunched fiercely on his knees, a curl of smoke eddying upward from the hot barrel of his weapon. Clyde had returned the swift favor The Shadow had done for him.

  EDITH was still on her knees beside the figure of Bruce Dixon. She was moaning, wringing her hands. Apparently she hadn't heard the roaring pistols a few feet away.

  The Shadow vanished into darkness. He followed the passage that led to a chamber where a mysterious, trussed figure had been lying, when Clyde and The Shadow had first made their cautious descent from above.

  When The Shadow returned, he was not alone. A figure stumbled at his side.

  The two hurried straight to the spot where Edith Allen was staring at the limp body of Bruce Dixon.

  Edith seemed carved from stone. But as The Shadow helped his faltering companion forward, the grief that held Edith speechless was abruptly broken.

  She uttered a shrill cry of wonder.

  The man who stood facing her, his countenance etched in lines of suffering

  and pain, was an exact counterpart of the wounded man who lay on the ground.

  It

  was as though Bruce Dixon had split himself, by some diabolic magic, into two separate bodies.

  Bruce Dixon was staring downward into the sneering, wide-open eyes of -

  Bruce Dixon!

  CHAPTER XX

  HIS FATHER'S SON

  FOR an amazed second, Edith stared at the identical men. Then two things happened. The wounded Bruce uttered a faint, snarling oath. The Bruce whom The Shadow had brought back from the corridor offshoot held out trembling arms toward the girl.

  "Edith! Thank God, you're safe! Oh - my darling!"

  Her face cleared. She moved toward him, crept with a sob into his open arms. This was the man she loved and trusted. He talked tenderly to her in a voice she knew. But his smile was ashen; there was fear in the depths of his eyes.

  "You are Bruce," Edith whispered. "Now I understand at last! This wounded man is an impostor. He was playing a criminal role, pretending to be Arnold Dixon's true son."

  The man holding her in his arms was silent. His eyes avoided Edith. But the wounded man laughed jeeringly.

  "Why doesn't he answer you? He can't - because he's a liar! He's not Arnold Dixon's real son. I am!"

  The girl shuddered, drew back a pace. Clyde Burke glanced at The Shadow.

  The Shadow nodded permission to speak.

  "It's the truth," Clyde told Edith, quietly. "Dixon's real son is that murderous rat on the floor. The man you love is an impostor. But don't misjudge

  him. The real criminal is Dixon's own son."

  He glanced at the sneering crook on the floor.

  "You're dying, Bruce. You might as well talk, before you die."

  Bruce laughed feebly.

  "Okay. Why not? I hated my stupid father - left him ten years ago - never would have returned until it was time for me to identify myself and inherit his

  fortune. But I happened to read an item in a San Francisco paper, and realized that this good-looking fake was taking my place in the family, pretending to be

  me."

  He drew a deep, rattling breath.

  "I came back secretly. I found out what was going on. This fellow was being used by Timothy, the lawyer, who was after the Dixon wealth. Rodney was the guy who arranged the substitution."

  "That's not true," the white-faced impostor replied. "I never met Rodney.

  I never saw him until the night he first appeared outside the library window at

  Shadelawn."

  Clyde Burke shook his head.

  "You had met Paul Rodney before, but you didn't recognize him in his disguise of the brown beard."

  The Shadow took a quick step forward where the dead Rodney lay. He bent suddenly and his gloved hand ripped the false beard from the stark face. It was

  no longer Paul Rodney. It was the sleek, clean-shaven face of Donald Perdy, the

  art photographer.

  THE fake son of Arnold Dixon gave a shuddering cry. He buried his face.

  "You'd better talk," Clyde told him in a gentle voice. "You're safe, now.

  Tell the truth."

  The young man nodded, squared his shoulders. His eyes moved toward Edith.

  He seemed to be talking only to her.

  His name, he confessed, was not Bruce Dixon but Bill Chandler. He had come

  to New York as a young civil engineer, out of work but determined to get a job.

  He failed. He was hungry, penniless, on a park bench when Perdy discovered him.

  Perdy had been combing the city with a camera, hunting for some one to impersonate the missing Bruce Dixon. Chandler agreed, not knowing the criminal plot he was furthering. The smooth Perdy took Chandler to Dixon's lawyer, Timothy, and the latter convinced the young engineer that the whole scheme was a last effort to save the life of a sick and sorrowful old man.

  Dixon, according to Timothy, was dying from grief because of the continued

  absence of his son.

  Bill Chandler was completely transformed. The fact that he was physically an exact double of Bruce was merely the beginning of the scheme. He was operated on, given a duplicate appendicitis scar. Timothy, who had known the real son from childhood, taught Chandler every fact he could recall - and the cunning lawyer's memory was prodigious.

  The result was a masquerade that defied detection. It fooled the old man and Charles, the butler, and, at first, Edith.

  "I love you, Edith," Chandler whispered, brokenly. "And - and I learned to

  love Arnold Dixon, too. As soon as I discovered that I was being used in a plot

  to kill him and turn his fortune over to Timothy, I - I tried to protect him.

  I

  knew that if I stayed in the house and pretended to work with the crooks, I could guard Arnold Dixon and perhaps save him from death."

  He drew a shuddering breath.

  "I - I didn't know that the real Bruce had returned secretly from San Francisco. I didn't know who Snaper and Hooley were. There was no one that I dared turn to for help, except a crook named Spud Wilson.

  "I offered Spud money, and he agreed to double-cross Timothy and help me to protect the old man. But Spud was discovered the night he crept to my window

  to talk to me. The next night, Perdy planted dynamite in Spud's parked car and blew him to pieces."

  "You mean," Edith faltered, "that all through this horror you've been helping Arnold Dixon, not trying to - harm him?"

  Chandler nodded.

  "He's telling the truth," Clyde Burke said. "The Cup of Confucius was stolen by Bruce himself, not young Chandler. The murder of Ch
arles and the attempted killing of his own father were also the ugly work of the real Bruce.

  Chandler was innocent all through this case. His sole guilt is the fact that he

  impersonated another man. He -"

  THERE was a quick warning hiss from The Shadow. He had been listening quietly to the true story he had already discovered for himself. He failed to reckon on one thing: the criminal cunning of the real Bruce Dixon.

  Bruce had not been fatally wounded. His dying moan was merely a piece of clever acting. He had apparently fainted. But he was biding his time.

  He staggered suddenly to his feet. Reeling, he fled toward the corridor.

  Clyde's first warning of disaster was the quick movement of The Shadow.

  The Shadow raced after the disappearing figure of the wounded son of Arnold Dixon. He ran swiftly because he divined in a flash what Bruce intended. But he

  was unable to overtake the desperate fugitive.

  Bruce Dixon darted into the rocky crypt where the explosives were stored.

  Before The Shadow could reach the doorway, he reappeared, something clutched in

  his wildly waving hand.

  It was a deadly thing - an explosive cap of fulminate of mercury.

  "Back!" he shrieked. "You can't arrest me, do you hear? One step nearer and I'll -"

  Clyde Burke came racing along the dim corridor. His gun whipped level for a shot. He couldn't hear what Bruce had cried. The rocky walls of the corridor had blurred the words.

  Before The Shadow could restrain him, Clyde had fired.

  The Shadow threw himself and Clyde flat on the rock floor. Bruce Dixon swayed with a bullet in his lungs. His dying hand threw the deadly cap. But he was too weak to toss it far. It smashed against the floor directly in front of him.

  The roar of the explosion was terrific. Flame gushed up in front of the toppling murderer. When the dazzle was gone and the long thunderous echoes of the explosion died away, Clyde Burke uttered an exclamation of horror.

  The place where Bruce had fallen was like a shambles. The walls were spattered crimson. Dixon's criminal son had blown himself to pieces. Only a twitching huddle of bloody rags showed where the desperate fugitive had been.

  THE SHADOW drew a hissing breath. He clutched at Clyde, hurried him back along the corridor. Edith Allen and Bill Chandler were standing where he had left them, rooted in terror. Chandler's arms were about the girl in a protecting gesture.

  The Shadow whispered briefly to Clyde. Then the darkness of the cave swallowed The Shadow for a few moments. When he reappeared, he was carrying something in his hand. Clyde took it from him, walked to where Chandler and Edith stood. He handed the object to the young man.

  It was the Cup of Confucius. Even in the harsh yellow light of the lantern

  on the floor, the marvelous beauty of the fabulous cup was evident. Under its grime of centuries old dirt, the priceless jade gleamed with a soft, living beauty. The nine mystic circles of jewels sparkled. There were rubies, emeralds, diamonds, pearls - Chandler's eyes bulged as he looked at the cup.

  So

  did Edith's.

  "Is... is Bruce dead?" the young man faltered.

  Clyde glanced at The Shadow. The Shadow had told him what to say.

  "It all depends," Clyde said, slowly. "Do you really love Arnold Dixon enough to want to keep him from dying of heartbreak?"

  "Yes, yes! He's been more than a real father to me!"

  "And you've been more than his real son. Bruce was his son only by name and birth. He's dead now, blown to pieces. But Arnold Dixon need never find it out. Go back to him. Take the cup. Tell him you followed the thieves and recovered it. Timothy and Rodney are dead. They can never betray your secret.

  "The police will never find out the actual facts behind this case. The Shadow will take care of that. He wants you to continue in what no longer will be a deception. Fate and an old man's need has changed you to Dixon's son.

  You're the honest son he's always wanted to have. Go home to him, Bruce Dixon, and take Edith with you!"

  Tears welled from Edith's blue eyes. She turned, stared toward the spot where The Shadow had been. The spot was empty. The Shadow had melted into darkness.

  Edith's steps took her into Chandler's outstretched arms.

  "I want to go home with you, Bruce, to your father. He needs you - and I love you!"

  FROM the fire-blackened stones of the foundations that once had supported the stately Carruthers mansion, a dark figure glided. It moved rapidly under the lonely stars in the sky. It vanished without sound.

  A faint whisper of sibilant laughter was the only indication that a living

  being had moved across that open spot.

  The Shadow was satisfied. The case was closed, forever.

  Other cases would intrigue the Master of Darkness, however - particularly one that would lead him along a "Treasure Trail." Millions in bullion lay between the rotting ribs of an old frigate under the East River's treacherous waters, but only The Shadow could pierce the innermost secret of its strong box

  at the end of the "Treasure Trail."

  THE END

  FB2 document info

  Document ID: 363058ce-827a-497b-b4d2-50abd25c6d30

  Document version: 1

  Document creation date: 24.5.2012

  Created using: calibre 0.8.51, FictionBook Editor Release 2.6.6 software

  Document authors :

  Maxwell Grant

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