Maxwell Grant - The Shadow - 033 - The Living Joss

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THE LIVING JOSS
Maxwell Grant
? CHAPTER I. SHADOWS OF CHINATOWN
? CHAPTER II. THE MEETING
? CHAPTER III. THE AFTERMATH
? CHAPTER IV. A STRANGE SUMMONS
? CHAPTER V. THE LIVING JOSS
? CHAPTER VI. KWA PREPARES
? CHAPTER VII. A CHANCE CALL
? CHAPTER VIII. THE YELLOW FACE
? CHAPTER IX. AT THE UNION CLUB
? CHAPTER X. THE CRAFT OF CHUN SHI
? CHAPTER XI. THE SHADOW MOVES
? CHAPTER XII. THE MIGHT OF KOY SHAN
? CHAPTER XIII. THE SHADOW'S CLEWS
? CHAPTER XIV. THE SHADOW LEARNS
? CHAPTER XV. THE NEXT NIGHT
? CHAPTER XVI. ON THE STAIRS
? CHAPTER XVII. THE HANDS OF KWA
? CHAPTER XVIII. DOWN TO CHINATOWN
? CHAPTER XIX. THE LATE VISITOR
? CHAPTER XX. WORK IS ENDED
? CHAPTER XXI. CARDONA FOLLOWS A HUNCH
? CHAPTER XXII. THE LAW MOVES
? CHAPTER XXIII. CARDONA'S STRATEGY
? CHAPTER XXIV. THE SHADOW ADVANCES
? CHAPTER XXV. IN THE TEMPLE
? CHAPTER XXVI. THE ROOM BELOW
? CHAPTER XXVII. DOOM TO THE FIEND!
CHAPTER I. SHADOWS OF CHINATOWN
HAZY night had settled over Manhattan. The rumble of a departing elevated train came through the mist
as a solitary man came down the dingy iron stairway from the downtown station. Reaching the street, the
man stopped just beside the steps to light a cigarette which he had thrust in a short, gold-banded holder.
The glare of the match revealed a cunning face, topped with sleek black eyebrows that indicated the
color of the man's hair. Flicking the match into the gutter, the man strolled leisurely along the street beside
the elevated, walking with shoulders back, and one hand swinging idly.
There was something of the military in the man's bearing, combined with a nonchalance. His erect
carriage, which made him seem taller than his middle height, was unusual for this locality; for all those
who passed him amidst the fog were slouching, furtive characters.
A poorly clad derelict shambled toward the erect walker and whined a request for a few cents to make
up coffee money. The reply that he received was a sharp refusal, so scoffing in tone that the bum hastily
slouched away. The strolling man emitted an ugly laugh, then puffed at his cigarette. He spied a narrow
alleyway through the fog, and turned in that direction.
The little thoroughfare was illuminated only by dull lamps when the sallow-faced man entered it; but as he
reached a turn in the street, the stroller entered the zone of an indirect glare which increased as he
continued to the next turn. Swinging at a sharp angle, the man came into view of a bizarre scene that
seemed like a magical transformation from the sordid surroundings which he had just left.
The wayfarer was approaching the outskirts of New York's Chinatown. A city within a city, this quaint
district had all the semblance of an Oriental metropolis in miniature.
The hovering fog added to the picturesque glow of lighted doors and windows. The curving street led on
toward a brilliant zone which might well have been a portion of old Shanghai. Yellow faces peered from
shops. Corner loungers, despite their American clothes, proved to be Chinese.
A PLEASED, knowing smile appeared upon the stroller's lips. The sallow-complexioned man seemed to
find a familiar interest in his new surroundings. His shifting eyes noted the features of solemn-faced
Celestials. Still smoking his cigarette, the man was noting the expressions of yellow faces with an
observation that denoted understanding.
The visitor's shifting gaze noted more than those who passed him on the street. His shrewd eyes glanced
into Oriental shops, into ground-floor eating rooms, where Chinamen were gibbering as they manipulated
chopsticks over bowls of rice.
At times the stroller paused, catching words that he heard uttered; then he continued onward into
Chinatown.
He reached the corner of Mott and Pell Streets, that busy center in the heart of the Chinese district.
Here, his eyes roved while his hands inserted a new cigarette into the holder.
The man looked up toward a lighted balcony high above the street - the reputed headquarters of a
Chinese tong. Then his steadying gaze centered itself upon the many yellow faces that were passing.
Two Chinamen walked by, engaged in low discussion between themselves. The sallow-faced man
watched them with narrowing gaze. He strolled after them as they continued up one thoroughfare.
The Orientals, clad in American garments, did not notice the man behind them. They turned into a side
street. The sallow-faced man paused to light his cigarette, then again followed.
The new thoroughfare was nothing more than a dingy alley, lined by blank walls, with occasional obscure
shops. A single light, jutting from a wall, indicated a restaurant about a hundred feet ahead. This was
obviously the destination of the conversing Chinamen.
So intent, however, was the sallow-faced man that he paid no attention to anything other than the men
just ahead of him. He did not notice that there was someone else going in the same direction, but on the
other side of the street. In fact, he could scarcely have seen this new personage, for the stranger's
presence was barely visible.
A tall, moving form that had a human shape; a weird phantom of the night - this was all that indicated the
one who was taking a course parallel to the Chinamen and their follower.
More apparent, indeed, than the shape which caused it, was a long, grotesque shadow that moved upon
the opposite sidewalk. A silhouetted blotch that kept pace with the Chinamen and the man behind them;
this was the chief manifestation of the hidden being who had entered the odd picture.
The Chinamen stopped at the light and went into the obscure restaurant. This consisted of a fair-sized
room, with nearly a dozen tables. At the present hour, it was deserted. The Chinamen took a table at the
side of the room.
A few minutes later, the sallow-faced man entered. He looked about him with the air of a man who had
made an interesting discovery. He sat down at a vacant table.
One of the Celestials blinked blandly at the newcomer, then spoke to his companion. The gist of his
remark - in Chinese - was that this must be some chance American making a random trip to Chinatown.
A waiter appeared, carrying bowls of food, which he placed before the Chinese patrons. They were
evidently regular eaters here. When the waiter turned to the American, the latter addressed him in
sing-song fashion.
"Chop suey?" he asked. "You givee chop suey here? Make him quick. Chop suey."
Again, one of the Chinamen spoke in his native tongue. He mentioned that this man was unquestionably a
chance sight-seer. Chop suey was a dish favored by those who were not accustomed to real Chinese
delicacies. This restaurant served it only for strangers such as this one.
TO most Occidentals, Chinese faces are expressionless. But to the sallow man seated in this obscure
restaurant, it was plain that the dining Celestials had come here to converse in private. He had noted their
peculiar reticence when he had first observed them at Mott and Pell.
They were speaking freely now, and the listener understood their jargon. Pretending to be a chance
stroller, he was playing the part of eavesdropper.
He learned from the conversation that they were Chinatown merchants; and while he clumsily fumbled
with chopsticks over a bowl of chop suey, he waited for a new trend in the discussion.
The Chinamen were paying no attention to him. He was apparently interested only in the chop suey.
Hence neither the speaker nor the listeners were aware that another watcher had arrived.
Peering through the corner of the front window, an unseen personage was watching the Chinamen as they
spoke, and also casting occasional glances in the direction of the sallow-faced American.
His form invisible against the wall outside the building, this being had become a specter of the night. Silent
and watchful, he was observing all that passed within the room, and his keen eyes spotted the fact that
the sallow-faced man was secretly interested in the Chinese discussion.
"You say, then," remarked one solemn Chinaman, in his native tongue, "that he has returned."
"I do not say that he has returned," replied the other. "I say only that which I have heard. There is talk
about Kwa. Talk that he is here."
"Kwa has long been expected. Each time that he came before, it was soon learned that he was here."
"Yes; and each time that Kwa departed, we heard no more of him until he returned."
The yellow faces peered soberly at each other. Then one Chinese merchant took up the thought that was
evidently in the minds of both.
"Kwa is called the Living Joss. His power is great among those who believe in him. It is wise not to
speak too much of Kwa."
"The abode of Kwa is secret" - the added statement came from the second Chinaman - "and only those
who believe can see the face of Kwa. No one can name those who believe in Kwa, nor those who do
not believe in Kwa."
There was long silence. Not an expression appeared upon either yellow countenance. Yet the words, to
one who understood the Chinese temperament were filled with definite meaning.
KWA, the Living Joss! Was he a myth or a real dweller here in New York's Chinatown? A being
reputed by some to be almost a deity in human form, the followers of Kwa were a secret body who kept
their beliefs to themselves.
These merchants, apparently close friends, had retired to seclusion before they dared bring up this
tremendous subject. Even by themselves, they spoke in cautious tones. Neither one could be sure
whether or not the other was a follower of Kwa. In Chinatown, adherence to a cause meant more than
long friendship.
The merchants finished their meal. They left the restaurant still sober, and reserved. The sallow-faced
listener smiled. An American familiar with the ways of Orientals, he could understand the apprehensions
of the Chinamen, now that he had overheard the conversation.
For years, the powerful secret societies known as tongs had been a hidden influence in Chinatown, often
rising to the surface. But here was a power greater than that of any tong - a group controlled by an
unknown leader whose followers called him the Living Joss!
No wonder these merchants were perturbed. A being such as Kwa, if his claims were genuine, would
have a superhuman power which he could direct against nonbelievers. On the contrary, Kwa, a
pretender, could stir up fanatical underlings to a fever pitch. He could undermine the tongs themselves
and plunge them into new wars from within!
The American pushed the remainder of his dish aside and strolled from the restaurant. He walked back
toward the center of Chinatown. He did not see the black form that detached itself from the side of the
dark building, to travel in his wake.
Two Chinamen were talking at the door of a shop. They ceased as they saw a man stop to light a
cigarette; when they observed the sallow face of the American, they resumed their discourse, and the
man caught a few words in Chinese lingo.
"It is said that Kwa has returned and -"
"Those who believe in Kwa -"
"None can know except those who have seen the face of Kwa, himself -"
The sallow-faced man moved along. He glanced at his watch as he came into the light of a bright but
narrow street. He increased his gait to a swinging stride, but never ceased his alertness as he passed
spots where Chinamen were loitering.
Again, he heard the spoken name of Kwa; later, as he picked a deserted side street on the outskirts of
Chinatown, he caught the mumbled tones of an Oriental who was uttering the same mysterious title.
THE district was agog. Kwa had returned. In some unknown abode, an insidious power dwelt. Who
was this unknown being who had returned to New York?
What was his mission here?
The man who had heard, thought of the shadowy streets in Chinatown. Strange menaces existed there -
factors which could not exist outside of that town which seemed like a patch of the Orient transplanted to
Manhattan.
A mysterious being such as Kwa could not be found elsewhere in New York - so the sallow-faced man
reflected. But in that opinion he was wrong. Had he glanced behind him as he strode along, coming from
an alleyway into a street beneath the elevated line, he might have glimpsed the sign of a phantom shape as
amazing as any Living Joss.
Out of the shadows of Chinatown had come a Living Shadow - a weird, sinister shape which glided
along in exact speed with the military stride of the departing man. A splotch of blackness, long and
silhouetted in the fog-blended lights of street lamps, was following the man who had heard.
That strange shape had come to Chinatown tonight. It had crossed the path of the prowling American. It
was the token of an unseen watcher in the night, one who had also learned the rumors that persisted
concerning the unknown Kwa.
The Shadow, master of darkness, had watched the lips of the speaking Chinese merchants. Unobserved,
The Shadow had heard the name Kwa uttered at the door of the obscure shop. Later, The Shadow had
heard the remarks of other Chinamen, speaking in their native tongue as they mentioned the name of the
Living Joss.
Now, spectral in the darkness, The Shadow was trailing the American who had so cleverly intruded upon
Chinese conversations.
Shadows still remained in Chinatown; but The Shadow had departed, and none knew of his arrival or his
departure!
CHAPTER II. THE MEETING
FOUR men were gathered about a circular table. The room in which they were seated was a built-in sun
porch of a large mansion, a fact easily recognizable by the windows that flanked three sides. Behind
drawn shades, the quartet was holding a quiet discussion. A vacant chair, however, signified that the
group expected another member.
In the largest chair, the one which might well have constituted the head, was a weary, gray-haired man
some seventy years of age. His shoulders were bowed, his face was pale, but kindly. His thin hands
rested upon the edge of the table.
"Will we have to wait much longer?"
The old man asked the question in a quavering voice as he looked at his companions.
"I hope not, Mr. Schofield," came a reply. "We will allow just a few minutes more; then we can
proceed."
The old man nodded. At that moment, a servant entered the sun porch and addressed the elderly
individual.
"Doctor Zelka is here, sir."
"Tell him to come in at once."
The reply did not come from the old man. It was made by a middle-aged gentleman seated at his right -
the same one who had made the previous remark. He evidently played the part of Schofield's
spokesman.
All eyes turned toward the door. The middle-aged gentleman arose and went in that direction. The door
opened, and a sallow-faced man entered and bowed to the group as he delivered a smile intended as a
greeting, despite its unpleasant twist.
"You are Doctor Ward Zelka?" questioned the middle-aged man.
"Yes," replied the visitor, extending his hand.
"I am Westley Hartnett," said the middle-aged man. "I am Barton Schofield's attorney. This, Doctor
Zelka, is Mr. Schofield."
He led the visitor to the head of the table, where the old gentleman reached up to shake hands. Hartnett
turned to continue the introduction.
"Blaine Goodall," he said to Zelka. "He is the president of the Huxley Corporation."
Zelka received the handshake of a tall, square-jawed man who had the physique of an athlete.
"And David Moultrie," continued Hartnett.
The visitor clasped hands with a wiry individual whose teeth showed in a wide-lipped grin. David
Moultrie's countenance was chiefly mouth.
Introductions completed, Westley Hartnett conducted Doctor Ward Zelka to the empty chair. Still
standing, the attorney looked about, as though suspicious of eavesdroppers. The drawn blinds reassured
him. He studied the members of this group, as though preparing for an important discussion.
All looked toward Hartnett. Blaine Goodall was thoughtful; David Moultrie grinning. While old Barton
Schofield still sat passively at the head of the table, Doctor Zelka drew a cigarette from his pocket and
inserted it in the end of a short, gold-banded holder.
NO one noticed an imperceptible motion of one window shade. Hands from the outer darkness had
raised the sash. Eyes were peering through a narrow crevice at the bottom of the blind. Unsuspected ears
were listening to this conference.
The Shadow, master of the night, had arrived.
"Our discussion," began Hartnett, "involves the affairs of the Huxley Corporation. Mr. Goodall, as
president of that concern, approached my client, Mr. Barton Schofield, and requested this conference.
Mr. Schofield agreed to it.
"This meeting, gentlemen, is actually a secret assemblage of the principal shareholders in Huxley
Corporation stock. I, therefore, go on record as expressing my disapproval of it at the outset. You may
speak now, Mr. Goodall."
Westley Hartnett took his chair beside Barton Schofield, and held a whispered conversation with his
client. Blaine Goodall, the corporation president, arose. Chewing his lips in nervous fashion, he
addressed the other men.
"Mr. Hartnett is right," he said lamely. "This meeting is irregular, but I was induced to arrange it. The story
is simply this. In about three months from now, Amalgamated Enterprises will make a strong bid for the
controlling interest in Huxley Corporation. It will be possible, at that time, for a group of majority holders
to sell their stock at a price equivalent to what Amalgamated Enterprises would pay for the entire
acquisition, if forced to buy shares on the open market.
"Amalgamated Enterprises has the impression that the controlling interest of Huxley Corporation is in the
hands of a small group headed by Mr. Barton Schofield. In fact, they are ready to believe that Mr.
Schofield himself has more than fifty per cent of the Huxley shares. Such, however, is not the case.
"While I was wondering about this matter, I was approached by David Moultrie" - he indicated the
largemouthed man - "who had already spoken to Doctor Zelka. Mr. Moultrie is a gentleman who deals in
corporation stocks. He stated that Doctor Zelka, like Mr. Schofield, held blocks of Huxley shares. He
suggested that we form the group which is believed to exist.
"Mr. Schofield and Doctor Zelka will pool their interests. I am to keep silent on Huxley affairs while Mr.
Moultrie buys up loose shares. We will then have the controlling interest that we seek."
David Moultrie arose as Blaine Goodall ceased speaking. With his leering grin, this fellow followed up
the conservative statements of the corporation president.
"Let me get to work," he suggested, "and I'll buy up Huxley shares for next to nothing. If Goodall here
keeps quiet, it will be soft. I'll make it look like Huxley is going to the dogs -"
"In other words," interposed Hartnett, his eyes blazing, "you plan to manipulate Huxley stock - to deceive
the present shareholders -"
"Yes!" asserted Goodall. "That's just what I can do. I can swing it for two million dollars' profit - maybe
more - and your client there will get his big cut out of it."
"One moment," ordered Hartnett, rising. "I have discussed this matter with Mr. Schofield. He is a man of
integrity, a retired banker, whose name has never been smirched by any stigma. Mr. Schofield is willing
to go into the open market, to buy Huxley shares on a legitimate basis, and thus to acquire a controlling
interest. But to follow the scheme that you suggest - that would be an outrage! There is your answer,
Moultrie!"
"Yes?" Moultrie grinned. "Try it! That's where I've got you blocked. Doctor Zelka, here, holds enough
stock to give me a start. Go out and try to beat me, Hartnett. I'll kill your game. I'll drive Huxley stock
into the ground. You'll be holding a stack of worthless shares. You'll never get control for Barton
Schofield!"
For a moment, stock manipulator and attorney faced each other with challenging gazes. Old Barton
Schofield was perturbed. Blaine Goodall was trying to restore a friendly feeling. Doctor Ward Zelka
calmly puffed his cigarette. His sallow face registered enjoyment of the situation.
SINGULARLY enough, it was Zelka who finally gained the floor after a series of epithets had been
hurled by both Hartnett and Moultrie. The sallow-faced man spoke in a raspy voice that brought
attention in his direction.
"Why speak of integrity?" he demanded. "It is not at stake. Here is the situation in a nutshell. One man,
with a good start, could quietly gain control of Huxley stock. I could be that man. Barton Schofield could
be that man.
"However, David Moultrie seized upon the idea ahead of us. He needed one of us; he wisely decided to
line up both. He came to me with opportunity, which I accepted. I advise you, Mr. Schofield" - Zelka
was speaking directly to the old man, not to Westley Hartnett - "to do the same."
"Hear that?" queried Moultrie, turning to Hartnett. "The doctor, here, is talking sense. I let Mr. Schofield
in on the game because I figured he would listen to reason. He could go after the idea alone. Sure,
Schofield could. So could Doctor Zelka. I could take a stab at it myself, starting from scratch. But the
only wise way to work it is all together."
A silence; then Blaine Goodall took the floor. The president of the Huxley Corporation was nervous as
he issued a plea for cooperation.
"Can't we come to some agreement?" he questioned. "This places me in an embarrassing situation,
gentlemen. I, alone, am conversant with the facts. Unless something is done, I shall have to act in my
official capacity - to make known to the public that Huxley Corporation is dealing with Amalgamated
Enterprises."
"Make it known," ordered Westley, while old Barton Schofield delivered a weary nod of approval. "It
will rectify your present mistake, Goodall. You are dealing with two men of questionable reputation.
"Moultrie, here" - the lawyer's tone was scathing - "is a crooked stock manipulator. As for Doctor Zelka,
I have delved into his past. He is not a practicing physician in New York. He has no recognized status.
Why?"
"A question?" asked Zelka, with narrowed eyes. "I can answer it, Mr. Hartnett. I am a man of some
means. I have chosen a life of travel in preference to the retired existence of a medical practitioner."
"Travel?" jeered Hartnett. "Yes. I know of that, Doctor Zelka. You have been in Europe, through the
Orient, even in South America for a time. There are some cities - in fact, some countries - which would
not give you a healthy reception if you returned."
"Quite so," agreed Zelka suavely, as he lighted another cigarette. "An American traveling abroad
frequently finds himself confronted by unfortunate circumstances which do him an injustice."
"Yes?" queried the lawyer. "Talk to Mr. Schofield about that, Doctor Zelka. My client, too, has traveled
extensively during his long and useful life, but he has never encountered any of those unavoidable
situations of which you speak. Integrity! You would do well to make it your watchword, Doctor."
It was David Moultrie who took up cudgels for the accused physician, but Doctor Zelka calmly waved
the man down. Turning to Blaine Goodall, Zelka put a quiet question.
"How soon," he asked, "will you be forced to make the announcement of which you speak?"
"Two weeks from tonight," returned Goodall. "That is the longest that I can wait."
"That will be sufficient," decided Zelka. "Let us part friends, gentlemen. We will give Mr. Hartnett a
chance to confer again with Mr. Schofield. Perhaps, with sober consideration, they will reverse their
decision. If they do, Mr. Hartnett can make the fact known to Mr. Goodall, who, in turn, can inform
Moultrie and myself. Of course, should we come to the agreement which Moultrie and I desire -"
"I'll hold off the announcement indefinitely," agreed Goodall, "provided that I know the deal is going
through. But failure to get together throws me back to my duty to the Huxley Corporation."
"I understand," nodded Zelka, with a smile. "Come, Moultrie. We are leaving."
The physician extended his hand as a token of no ill feeling toward Westley Hartnett. The lawyer
accepted it.
"Sorry about the personalities, Doctor Zelka," he said. "But so far as the arrangement is concerned, I can
tell you now that none will be effected."
"Think it over," urged Zelka, shaking hands with old Barton Schofield. It was impossible to tell whether
his remark was made to the lawyer or to the retired banker.
Following Zelka's example, David Moultrie shook hands all around. The two men left the room. Blaine
Goodall remarked that he must be leaving, also. Westley Hartnett summoned a servant; old Barton
Schofield arose wearily and started upstairs, leaning upon the attendant. The old banker always retired
early in the evening.
ONE window shade gave a feeble flutter as the sash beyond it was silently lowered. Outside the house, a
phantom figure moved strangely through the darkness. It traveled swiftly across the blackened lawn, and
reached a coupe that was parked on a secluded lane beside Barton Schofield's Long Island mansion.
Another coupe shot by the entrance of the lane. David Moultrie and Doctor Ward Zelka were departing
in the former's car. Zelka had come here by taxi; Moultrie was taking him back to the city.
The hidden coupe moved. It swung into the road, and its dim lights glimmered. Far behind, it took up the
trail of the distant tail light which indicated Moultrie's car.
A laugh sounded in the darkness of the following automobile. A sinister sound, that mirth caused a hollow
echo within the confines of the coupe.
The Shadow, unseen, unknown, had listened well tonight. He had heard the schemes of two conniving
men; and he had also heard the answer which had blocked their plans.
The Shadow knew!
CHAPTER III. THE AFTERMATH
DOCTOR WARD ZELKA and David Moultrie were seated in a little booth at the side of Brindle's
restaurant. Over sandwiches and coffee, these thwarted stock manipulators were discussing the events at
the home of Barton Schofield. They had chosen Brindle's as their Broadway rendezvous, because each
booth seemed to draw its occupants apart from the world.
Thus, as they talked, both men were sure that they could not be heard. In this, however, they were
wrong. Had they looked into the next booth, they would have seen a man who was listening to every
word they said.
A calm-faced gentleman in evening dress was alone in that booth. He had entered wearing an overcoat,
and carrying a small bag, which he had deposited beside him when he removed his coat.
The bag lay between this man and the wall. From it, deft fingers had drawn a small microphone - a
miniature device which he had thrust through a crevice between the seat and the wall. He had attached a
small, clamped earphone to the side of his head that was also toward the wall.
The microphone, wedged into the range of the next booth, was picking up the conversation. With food
before him, the calm-faced man was listening in, thanks to the equipment in the bag beside him.
Who was this visitor to Brindle's? No one knew. His quiet entrance had attracted no attention. Yet there
were silk-hat racketeers in that Broadway restaurant who would have trembled, had they known the true
identity of this obscure and solitary diner.
The calm face of the visitor was masklike. Its expression was cold and inscrutable. Steady eyes gleamed
from either side of a hawkish nose. Even close inspection could not have revealed this inflexible
countenance as an assumed visage, overlaid to hide the true face beneath it.
The chance diner was The Shadow. The master, whose mighty presence was a threat to all gangdom,
had followed Zelka and Moultrie to this restaurant. Here, with the aid of a mechanical detector, he was
listening to the aftermath of the conference at Barton Schofield's.
"I MADE a bull," David Moultrie was saying. "I should have left Barton Schofield out of the picture."
"You could hardly have done so," came Zelka's quiet response. "You had to talk to Goodall, to keep him
quiet. Goodall was almost sure to speak to Schofield."
"Goodall has no foolish scruples," reminded Moultrie. "He might have kept his mouth shut."
"Goodall is a waverer," asserted Zelka. "He fluctuates between honesty and crookedness. Such men are
troublesome. Ethical conduct is something which one must either retain fully, or else disregard entirely."
"Which puts us out of luck. There's no chance of getting Barton Schofield with us now."
"I am not so sure of that." Zelka was speaking in a thoughtful tone. "I left the field open for new
negotiations. Barton Schofield, himself - well, if he were younger, he would have been flat in his refusal to
deal with us. But he is close to a doddering state, completely swayed by Hartnett's opinion. That is where
we have a chance."
"With Hartnett?" Moultrie's tone was incredulous. "Didn't you hear him talk about integrity?"
"Bunk," said Zelka suavely. "Listen, Moultrie. Hartnett is, unfortunately, an honest man. He is also a
lawyer. I happen to know law as well as medicine.
"Few attorneys are troubled with deep consciences. They weigh all matters, and invariably make a
decision in favor of the stronger point. It is just like the case in the courtroom. The district attorney fights
for a verdict of guilty; the defending lawyer for acquittal. They can see no compromise - even though
such a course might be the obvious way to justice.
"Who is Westley Hartnett? I shall tell you. He is an attorney hired to protect Barton Schofield's interests,
now that the old banker has retired from active life. Along with Schofield's financial affairs is his integrity.
"Hartnett may realize that one or the other must be sacrificed. He has resolved to favor integrity. Our
sudden parting, however, will make him think. He may reason as all lawyers do, that tangible affairs are in
his keeping. Suppose he gets the idea that we are going to knock the bottom out of Huxley stock, just to
even things up for the rebuff?"
"I see," nodded Moultrie. "He may figure that his duty to Barton Schofield requires him to protect the
value of the stock which the old man already has."
"Exactly. If he salves his conscience, he will decide to let us go ahead. He will make sure that he can
keep Barton Schofield's name out of the deal."
"That would be great."
"It is purely an opinion," remarked Zelka, as an afterthought. "It depends upon how important Huxley
摘要：

THELIVINGJOSSMaxwellGrant?CHAPTERI.SHADOWSOFCHINATOWN?CHAPTERII.THEMEETING?CHAPTERIII.THEAFTERMATH?CHAPTERIV.ASTRANGESUMMONS?CHAPTERV.THELIVINGJOSS?CHAPTERVI.KWAPREPARES?CHAPTERVII.ACHANCECALL?CHAPTERVIII.THEYELLOWFACE?CHAPTERIX.ATTHEUNIONCLUB?CHAPTERX.THECRAFTOFCHUNSHI?CHAPTERXI.THESHADOWMOVES?CHAP...

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分类：外语学习 价格：5.9玖币 属性：84 页 大小：208.81KB 格式：PDF 时间：2024-12-19

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