Maxwell Grant - The Shadow - 125 - The Cup of Confucious

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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 holding 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
to the jealous eyes of rival collectors.
A SIBILANT laugh of satisfaction escaped the lips of The Shadow as he saw
the massive gray walls of the Dixon estate loom up in the darkness. It was a
large place, built like an old-fashioned castle in a swanky and restricted
section overlooking Pelham Bay.
The Shadow drove past the gate, watching carefully until he saw a spot
where he could hide his car. Turning the coupe, he backed under a thick clump
of evergreens and left it there, securely hidden from sight.
The Shadow discovered that the gate which led to the grounds was closed
but not locked. He passed through and walked with deliberate steps along the
curving path that led through a rather thickly planted park toward the distant
turrets of the stone mansion.
Within an ornate, high-ceilinged room on the ground floor of the Dixon
mansion, two men were awaiting the appearance of the millionaire. One of them
was dressed in the severely dark clothing of a butler. He was a short, stocky
man with a placid face and a fringe of gray hair around his ears and the back
of his almost bald skull. This was Charles who had been in the service of
Arnold Dixon for more than thirty-five years.
Charles was arranging carved ivory chessmen on a board, but it was
evident
that his mind was not on his occupation. His eyes kept veering toward the
other
man. This second man was William Timothy, the millionaire's attorney and his
closest friend. It was for him and Dixon that the chess game was being
prepared.
Timothy was tall, spare. He paced up and down with an alert, nervous
step,
except for the cringing limp every time his left foot touched the carpet. He
suffered from chronic attacks of arthritis. But to-night his anxiety was
mental, not physical.
He said, abruptly: "Charles, put down those chessmen. I want to talk to
you."
Charles straightened from his task. There was a look of relief on his
plump face as he stared at the lawyer. He smiled wanly, as if he knew what
Timothy was about to say.
"There's no need for either of us to beat about the bush, Charles," the
lawyer murmured. "We know there's something highly unusual going on in this
house. Mr. Dixon won't talk. He's desperately afraid of some one or
something... We've both of us sensed that."
"That's true," Charles quavered. "The master hasn't been himself for the
past three months not since those two men first came here for a private
interview with him."
He added, timorously: "They're calling to-night, as I whispered to you
over the telephone."
"You were right in letting me know about it," Timothy said. "I'm very
anxious to get a good look at this Bert Hooley and his friend, Joe Snaper."
"They both have white, pasty faces; they talk in husky whispers out of
the
corners of their mouths. Very ugly-looking fellows, indeed."
"The names are probably aliases," Timothy murmured, grimly. "I've tried
to
trace them, to have them shadowed to wherever their headquarters is; but no
luck."
His voice hardened. He queried: "The same peculiar thing happens each
time
they call?"
"Yes, sir!"
CHARLES amplified his exclamation in a low hurried voice, his glance
watching the huge doorway through which presently would emerge Arnold Dixon
and
his good-looking son, Bruce. Hooley and Snaper had been coming regularly to
the
mansion for the past three months, twice every month. Their visits seemed to
terrify Arnold Dixon, but he never refused to see them. They were closeted
alone with him in his private office for twenty minutes or so. They always
left
looking triumphant.
Charles had tried timidly to speak to the old man about it, and had been
amazed at the angry transformation in his usually gentle employer. In a high,
strident voice, Dixon had told the faithful butler that if he didn't mind his
own business and stop asking impertinent questions he'd be instantly
discharged.
"And Bruce - what of him?" Timothy asked.
Again the butler glanced at the draped doorway.
"I'm afraid of Bruce, sir. I - I don't trust him."
"Why not?"
"Because every time these two fellows call, Mr. Bruce vanishes. He's done
it every time, sir. Never once has he commented on them to either me or his
father. But the moment they enter his father's study and the door is locked,
Mr. Bruce vanishes.
"I wasn't sure of that until lately. Then I began quietly to search for
him. It was no use, sir. Apparently, Mr. Bruce either leaves the house or is
hidden somewhere in the old wing where his father's study is located."
"And a valuable collection of Chinese pottery, eh?" Timothy said, softly.
There was a taut smile on his worried face. "Tell me honestly, Charles, what
is
your opinion of these two fellows?"
"I - I think that Hooley and Snaper may be blackmailers, sir. It's
curious
that their visits began shortly after Mr. Bruce - er - returned from his long
absence. I'm convinced that the master is paying regular tribute to protect
either himself or Bruce. Mr. Bruce was always a wild, headstrong boy. He left
home after a dreadful quarrel about his gambling, his debts and his peculiar
friends."
Charles's eyes dropped away from the lawyer's steady stare.
"I have an uneasy feeling that Mr. Bruce always disappears when these
rogues call, because he is in league with them."
Timothy said, sharply: "Are you hinting that perhaps Bruce may not be
Arnold Dixon's real son?"
"I - I don't know what to think," the butler whispered.
There was a long silence. Timothy shook his head, patted the trembling
shoulder of the old servant.
"We're both allowing our fears and our imaginations to run away with us.
Bruce is the real son. He can't be otherwise. You know the tests I insisted on
making. Physical and mental. Tests of memory that go all the way back to the
boy's childhood."
His voice deepened impatiently. "Bruce passed every one of those tests
with flying colors The same appendicitis scar across his abdomen. No lobes on
his ears. His face, his body, his very way of talking! You yourself heard him
tell me things when I examined him - things about people, places, events that
no one but the true son of Arnold Dixon could possibly have known. You
yourself, Charles, were absolutely convinced."
"I know it, sir. But - well, for one thing, he's so good-humored; so
devoted to the welfare of his father. Before he left home, ten years ago, he
was utterly different - headstrong, obstinate, downright vicious."
"Ten years make a big difference," Timothy said. "Bruce is twenty-seven
now. He's had a hard time, learned his lesson. A man learns sense from getting
hard knocks all over the world. It's to be expected. The natural thing."
"He had definite criminal tendencies before he left home," Charles
insisted in a low voice. "I hope I'm wrong. I - I want to be wrong! But if Mr.
Bruce were actually, by some queer trickery, an impostor -"
TIMOTHY'S warning hand on Charles's arm cut short his anxious words. Both
men turned toward the draped doorway. The lawyer's face was smiling.
"Hello, Arnold! Ready for our chess game? Good evening, Bruce."
Charles went back to his interrupted arranging of the chessmen. There was
lazy, bantering talk between the two old friends. As Dixon took a cigar from
his humidor and handed one in the lawyer, Bruce sprang forward with a lighter
and held the flame with a courteous hand to the tips of the two weeds.
Mindful of the butler's ominous words, Timothy studied Bruce quietly out
of the corner of his eye. The resemblance between father and son was striking.
The same long nose with flaring sensitive nostrils, the same wide Dixon mouth.
Other things that were surer proof than mere resemblance. The ears with no
lobes to them. The scar at the hollow above Bruce's smooth cheek bone.
That scar dated back to a mishap that had occurred when Bruce was a lad
only eight years old. He had fallen from a pony and struck his head against a
pointed rock.
William Timothy caught the butler's eye and shook his head with a slight
reassuring gesture. He began to puff on the excellent cigar Dixon had handed
him.
The old man's hesitant words put an end to Timothy's complacence.
"Afraid we won't have time for chess to-night, William."
"No chess?" Timothy, who had been sliding to his regular chair behind the
polished game table, pretended surprise. "Why not, Arnold?"
"It just happens I expect - er - a couple of visitors to-night. Friends
of
mine I - I used to know in the West. They happen to be in town on a business
trip and I - I invited them over for a chat. Do you mind?"
"Not at all," Timothy replied, his voice even.
"I - I hate to call off our chess game, but I'll probably be closeted
with
my friends for some time in my private den. As an old friend, I know you'll
understand and excuse me."
The millionaire was extending his hand with a cordial smile, but with a
definite hint of dismissal in his manner.
Timothy, however, lingered. So did Bruce. So did Charles, the butler. The
lawyer kept watching the son unobtrusively; Bruce's face was blandly innocent.
It was impossible to tell whether Bruce was worried or merely bored by this
talk of business and visitors.
Silence descended on the room. Dixon's gray head kept lifting alertly
while he murmured inconsequential things to the lawyer. Timothy knew that his
friend was listening for something. He knew what that something would be - the
sound of the doorbell. He decided grimly to delay his slow departure until he
had a chance to see this Hooley and his friend, Snaper.
Charles began to remove the chess pieces from the board and repack them
in
their box. Suddenly, he started nervously and his tremulous hand upset a
bishop
and a knight.
The quick cry of a brazen gong echoed through the silence of the living
room.
Some one was impatiently ringing the front doorbell.
CHAPTER III
THE VANISHING SON
CHARLES straightened with the habitual woodenness of a servant and left
the room.
Bruce gave his father a quick, unreadable glance and picked up a magazine
from a side table. He sat calmly down in a leather chair, flipping open the
magazine pages with a casual hand. Timothy was conscious that the son's eyes
were staring covertly at him above the top of the spread periodical.
To the lawyer's relief, he heard the sound of approaching footsteps.
Charles stood for an instant in the doorway, bowing formally.
"Mr. Lamont Cranston," he said.
If The Shadow, as Cranston, was aware that his visit was unexpected he
gave no sign of it. Smilingly, he approached the puzzled millionaire, held out
his hand.
"How do you do, sir? I believe you know me, Mr. Dixon. If not by personal
acquaintance, at least as a fellow art enthusiast. I came to-night, hoping for
the privilege of viewing your collection of Chinese pottery. I have a letter
with me from the curator of ceramics of the Museum of Art, and I trust -"
Arnold Dixon had recovered his scattered wits. Color came back into his
pale face. He forgot everything except his pride in the collection that had
made him nationally famous in art circles.
"Lamont Cranston? Of course! I'm delighted to meet you! I've read your
monographs on the ancient Oriental methods of glazing porcelain with a great
deal of interest. I disagree with some of your theories and perhaps I can
explain why, when I show you some of the older specimens of my -"
"Aren't you forgetting, father, that you expect other visitors to-night?"
a voice said, dryly.
The Shadow turned to observe the calm young man who had laid his magazine
aside and was rising lazily to his feet.
"My son Bruce," Dixon said, with a quick smile. "And this is Mr. William
Timothy. My lawyer and an old friend."
The Shadow shook hands with both. He gauged their appearance as
accurately
as he had that of the millionaire. Dixon was ill at ease, frightened. The
lawyer
was alert, very much interested. Bruce was pretending to be bored, but that
was
merely pretense. Behind the vague surface of his blue eyes was a bright inner
gleam that indicated repressed annoyance.
"Too bad Mr. Cranston has had his trip out here for nothing," Bruce said
quickly. "I'm sure he would have enjoyed seeing those lovely Ming vases."
"I'd be glad to wait," The Shadow said, smoothly.
Arnold Dixon hesitated. He was torn between his desire to get rid of
Cranston and his childish eagerness to show off his collection to a man who
understood their rare value.
He glanced at his son, but Bruce merely shrugged and went back to his
magazine. Timothy bowed, murmured a courteous phrase and took his leave.
A FEW minutes passed, which The Shadow bridged skillfully with Cranston's
polite conversation. He was determined to find out who these visitors were to
whom Bruce had referred.
Their coming had evidently excited both father and son. The Shadow
decided
from the old man's fidgety behavior, his sly glances at his watch, that the
visitors were due at any moment now. He was correct. Again the front door bell
clanged.
Bruce rose instantly from the sofa where he had been sitting so lazily.
His whole manner became sullen, almost defiant. With a quick stride, he walked
toward the living room door.
He said crisply over his shoulder: "Good night, father. I think I'll go
to
the library and play a game or two of solitaire."
He was gone before Arnold Dixon could utter a word.
Hardly had he left when the heavy footfalls of Charles approached from
the
front hall.
"Mr. Joe Snaper and Mr. Bert Hooley," Charles announced.
"Better show Mr. Cranston into the library," Dixon said, hurriedly.
"Very good, sir."
But The Shadow had other plans. He wanted to study for a moment this
strange pair who had just entered the room. He stepped closer to them, his
smile friendly.
"Good evening, gentlemen. I'm sorry to have blundered in on your
appointment."
"Okay. That's all right with us," Hooley said.
"Sure! We got lots of time," Snaper said. He laughed briefly, exposing
yellow teeth.
The Shadow summarized the two with a swift glance. Jailbirds! No doubt of
that at all. The pasty faces, the low husky voices, the peculiar enunciation
from the corners of their mouths were eloquent evidence that these two
"gentlemen" had served time behind prison walls.
Snaper was the uglier of the two. He was lanky, loose-jointed, with a
grin
as tight as a steel trap. He had a thin shock of mouse-colored hair. In spite
of
the fact that he was wearing expensive clothes, he had neglected to shave
himself and his leathery cheeks were peppered with a frosty stubble of beard.
From the set of his coat The Shadow was convinced that the fellow was carrying
a large-calibered gun in a concealed shoulder holster.
Hooley was plumper, definitely more dapper. He was almost completely
bald.
He smelled faintly of cheap perfume.
摘要：

THECUPOFCONFUCIUSbyMaxwellGrantAsoriginallypublishedin"TheShadowMagazine,"May1,1937.OutofthedimpastofancientChinacomestheCupofConfuciusfilledtothebrimwithmodernintrigueandmurder!OnlyTheShadowcanfathomthemysteryheldwithinitspricelessjadesides!CHAPTERIDYNAMITEITHEbroadconcreteapproachleadingtotheNewJe...

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