The Cup of Confucious s-125 Read online

  Dixon agreed to pay. It wasn't prison he feared, although Bert Hooley had proof that would implicate Dixon in the actual bank robbery. The thing that made Dixon agree to pay hush money was the thought of the scandal and notoriety

  that would ruin the life of his son, Bruce, if the real story was spread in the

  headlines of the tabloid scandal sheets. Two thousand dollars a month was nothing to Arnold Dixon. It was a cheap price to pay for security.

  "There was no trouble, and no threats of death," Dixon concluded feebly,

  "until the appearance of this strange man in the brown beard. This man that Hooley calls Paul Rodney. I don't know who Rodney is, or what his game is -

  but

  Snaper and Hooley are in deadly fear of him. So am I, because I - I -"

  He gulped, stopped talking abruptly. The tremor of his lips showed that he

  was holding something back. Something that frightened him more than mere blackmail.

  William Timothy sensed it. So did Bruce. They made him continue his confession.

  "You sure that you don't know this Rodney?" Bruce asked him, quietly.

  "No, son."

  "But you do know what he's after!" Timothy exclaimed. He had been watching

  Dixon narrowly. As an old friend, he was not afraid to talk harshly to the millionaire, to point out to him the absolute necessity of complete candor.

  "Have you ever heard of the Cup of Confucius?" Arnold Dixon said a queer, gasping voice.

  "Of course."

  Timothy's tone was one of puzzled interest. The Cup of Confucius was almost one of the seven wonders of the world. It had its legendary beginning in

  the ancient past of China. In that respect it was like the Holy Grail. To talk of something like that in terms of two jailbird blackmailers and a killer in a brown beard was preposterous, scarcely intelligible.

  "I don't quite understand," Timothy murmured. "What has the Cup of Confucius to do with you, Arnold?"

  "I think that's what Paul Rodney is after," Dixon faltered.

  "But there isn't any cup," Bruce cried, sharply. "It was burned, destroyed! Years ago!"

  "It wasn't burned and it wasn't destroyed," his father told him steadily.

  Arnold Dixon's eyes were ablaze with the fanatical, almost mad, zeal of an art collector. "The cup is mine! I brought it, paid for it - I own it! It's here!

  Now! In this house!"

  "You bought it?" Timothy breathed. "But - if it were found, if it really were in existence, it couldn't be bought. It would be priceless! No millionaire

  living would have money enough to pay for it!"

  "He might," Dixon said, steadily, "if the man who had it in his possession

  was a patriot badly in need of money. I bought it secretly from Sun Wang, the Chinese general who is now waging so desperate a fight against the invaders of his country. It was Wang's bandit troops who sacked the ancient Jade Temple where the cup was preserved for centuries.

  "The temple was burned to the ground but the cup was not lost. Sun Wang himself saved it. I got in touch with him through my Oriental agent, when he sent me a secret bid for its sale. Sun Wang wanted bullets, cannon, airplanes.

  I wanted the cup. I bought it - for a million dollars!"

  Bruce's eyes were shining. He turned away for an instant, as if to hide from Timothy and his father the sudden glint that came into them. It was a queer expression. Caution was mingled with fear and a sort of hard anger.

  "Where is the cup, now?" Bruce asked.

  "In the tower room upstairs. With the rest of my pottery collection. It's standing on a shelf in a plain wooden box."

  "But that's madness," Timothy protested.

  "Not at all," Arnold Dixon rejoined. "Who is to know it except us three?

  And even if Paul Rodney suspects I have it, he'd never dream of looking for it in a cheap wooden box standing openly on a shelf alongside a few valueless trinkets. It's safer there than it would be in a bank vault."

  Outside the curtained window, The Shadow's burning eyes were riveted on the pale face of Bruce. He paid no attention to his father.

  Arnold Dixon, oblivious to everything but the pride of his possession, was

  talking dreamily, like a drugged man.

  "You must know the legend," he said faintly. "Confucius himself created the cup, out of a cracked earthen pitcher presented to him by a pious peasant.

  He was weary and thirsty and the peasant offered him a drink of cold water after wealthy mandarins had driven the fainting holy man from their courtyards.

  "Confucius blessed the pitcher, gave it back. The peasant fell on his knees when he saw it. It had changed to priceless jade, ornamented with nine circles of rare and perfect jewels. A circle of rubies, of pearls, of emeralds,

  diamonds - of the mystic number of nine."

  The millionaire's voice rose triumphantly.

  "Gentlemen, that is the wonder that now belongs to me - mine! - in this house! It's crusted with the dirt of centuries, it looks like a smoke-blackened

  piece of junk. But it is the true Cup of Confucius! Would you like to see it, to

  touch it and feel the ancient satin smoothness of this priceless relic of old China?"

  Bruce said, hurriedly: "I'm sorry, father. Some other time. I've got to leave. Right now."

  His father and Timothy stared at him.

  "Edith is waiting for me to pick her up at the door of the theater in New York," Bruce explained, doggedly. "I gave her my word I'd meet her after the show."

  "But Bruce," his father said - "Surely -"

  "Edith and I are dangerously close to a quarrel because I've had to break other dates. I wouldn't have left her to-night except for the telephone call I got from Charles. Her love is more important to me than a thousand priceless Cups of Confucius! Good evening, dad."

  He bowed departure to Timothy, who was watching him with a steady scrutiny.

  OUTSIDE the curtained window, The Shadow's eyes remained like hidden flame. They observed the two men who were left in the room. William Timothy uttered a throaty exclamation and walked to a table where there was a telephone.

  Frowning, he picked up the instrument and called a Manhattan number. It was the number of the apartment of Edith Allen. Timothy talked for a few moments with his niece's maid, then hung up.

  "Bruce told the truth," he said, quietly. "Edith's maid says that Bruce and my niece went together to the theater. He left her there alone and is going

  to pick her up after the show and drive her home, as he told us. I just wanted to make sure."

  Arnold Dixon's face flushed with anger. "Was it necessary to make that phone call, William? Do you think my son is accustomed to lie about his movements?"

  Timothy shrugged.

  "I was afraid he might have received a threatening note similar to the one

  you got. I'm not worried about the boy's honesty. It's his safety I'm thinking of. A crook might figure the easiest way to extort the cup from you would be to

  kidnap Bruce and offer to make an even swap - his life for the cup! Have you thought about that angle, Arnold?"

  Dixon nodded. He turned nervously away, rang abruptly for Charles. The butler came in almost immediately. Timothy wondered if Charles might have been listening outside the door.

  "I want the key to the Spanish chest," Dixon said.

  Charles handed him a key from a large ring. The millionaire walked swiftly

  to a carved blackwood cabinet and unlocked it. There was a combination lock on the lowest drawer inside, and Dixon twirled the dial and opened it. He took out

  another key - the key to the tower in the south wing of the mansion. It was in an upper room in this tower that the millionaire's collection was stored.

  The moment Dixon looked at the key he gave a faint cry. There were tiny flecks of white on it. Timothy sprang forward, examined the key.

  "Wax!" he said, grimly. "Some one has recently taken a wax impression of that tower key." He sw
ung toward Charles. "What do you know about this?"

  "Nothing," Charles said. "If you think I tampered with the key, you're mistaken, sir. Only Mr. Dixon knows the combination of the lower drawer."

  "Quick!" Dixon cried, faintly. "To the tower room! Come with me, William!

  You, too, Charles!"

  They followed his hasty steps down a long corridor. He fitted the waxed key in a lock and swung open a heavy door. Winding stairs led aloft and the three hurried up. At the top, Dixon produced another key. This was a smaller one, that he produced from under his shirt on a long neck chain.

  The door of the treasure chamber flew open under his eager pressure. He sprang inside. Charles and the lawyer remained at the threshold, watching Dixon's quick rush toward a bare wooden shelf in a corner of the room. None of them paid any attention to the glass cases containing the collection of Chinese

  pottery. They watched the shelf where Dixon was standing.

  There was no wooden box on that shelf. Dixon was moaning, wringing his hands.

  "Gone!" he cried brokenly. "The cup is gone! It's been stolen!"

  IT was Timothy alone who retained his wits. A glance showed him that the tower window was open. He ran toward it, hobbling awkwardly and leaning on his heavy cane.

  He thrust his head out the window - and stiffened. His yell was brief. It died in his throat, as his two companions rushed toward the window.

  But Timothy blocked them off with his back. He had seen the face of the escaping thief. He knew it was the thief, because the fellow was carrying the missing wooden box strapped behind his back. Both hands were busily engaged lowering himself down the tangled mass of entwined ivy that clung to the wall of the tower.

  Moonlight fell for an instant on the thief's frightened, upturned face.

  It

  was Bruce Dixon!

  He sprang instantly to the ground, ran like a streak into the darkness.

  He

  was gone before Arnold Dixon or Charles could peer out the window.

  "Who was he?" Dixon screamed, beside himself with rage and grief.

  "I don't know," Timothy said, huskily. "He leaped down from the vines before I could see his face."

  "Was it - Paul Rodney?" Charles asked, in a peculiar tone.

  "I don't know Rodney," the lawyer retorted, sharply. "Do you?"

  Charles shook his head. "I - I'm nervous. Excuse me."

  They turned back into the rifled room. Arnold Dixon was sobbing in a dry, terrified voice. He stopped Charles as the latter rushed toward the tower stairs.

  "Don't notify the police!" he cried, brokenly. "I don't want publicity.

  The cup would be taken from me by the Chinese government. Oh, who stole it -

  who stole it?"

  Timothy avoided the old man's tragic eyes. He threw an arm about him, tried to comfort him, to whisper words of advice. But he didn't tell Arnold the

  truth about the face he had seen in the moonlight. He remained silent.

  Charles, too, was silent.

  BRUCE DIXON had almost reached the looming mess of the stone wall that enclosed the estate, when a dark figure rose directly in his path.

  The figure was The Shadow. He sprang forward, as Bruce crouched and drew a

  gun.

  The thief had no chance to fire. Before his finger could tighten on the trigger, he was dealt a heavy blow on the jaw that sent him sprawling. The box flew from his grasp and landed a half dozen feet away.

  Instantly, The Shadow had pounced on the treasure. He rose, ready to shoot

  if Bruce tried another attack.

  To his surprise, Bruce did nothing of the kind. He staggered empty-handed to his feet, whirled, fled into the darkness. His sudden change of heart surprised The Shadow. For a split-second, he failed to understand the reason for this very easy capture of the priceless cup.

  When he did know, it was too late. The quick rush of feet gave him time to

  turn, but not to dodge. A blow landed with stunning impact on the back of The Shadow's skull. The treasure box slid from his limp grasp. He pitched forward, unconscious, on his face.

  But not before he had recognized the face of the man who had slugged him and the fellow at his side.

  Joe Snaper had swung the heavy gun butt. The second snarling assailant was

  Bert Hooley.

  CHAPTER IX

  WHEN THE INDIAN IS HIGH

  THE SHADOW recovered consciousness in a narrow gravelike vault covered with soft, cold mud. For a horrified moment, he thought that he was underground, buried alive. Then he became aware of the distant voices of men.

  He could hear Timothy, the lawyer. Arnold Dixon, too. And Charles, the butler.

  The Shadow realized now where was. His body was outside the walls of the estate. He had been shoved into a drainage culvert that was built under the road. He could see the flare of electric torches. The three wildly excited men were searching the road, having failed to find any trace of an intruder inside the walls.

  The search was futile. After a while, they returned inside the gate and their voices dwindled in the darkness.

  The Shadow emerged from his queer hiding place. It was evident to him what

  had happened. Either Bruce or the two blackmailers had hidden his body there.

  Perhaps all three of them, acting in concert. The fact that Snaper and Hooley had interfered to save the young man from capture was eloquent testimony to the

  careful planning of the theft of the fabulous Cup of Confucius.

  The Shadow, however, was far from defeated. The cup was not yet lost, if he wasted no time.

  He stared clown the road toward the spot where Hooley's car had been hidden. On the blackness of the smooth asphalt, The Shadow detected a tiny gleam like the twinkle of a firefly. It was a drop of the chemically treated gasoline that had leaked from the tank of the fleeing thugs' car.

  The Shadow had foreseen such an emergency and had prepared for it. Now his

  grim care was rewarded. He had a sure way to trail at least two of the resolute

  thieves of a million-dollar treasure.

  His own car began to skim swiftly along the deserted road. The Shadow's deep set eyes watched the onrushing sweep of the road in front. Presently, he passed another of the far-spaced little fireflies. It was infinitely tiny, almost obliterated by evaporation, but he laughed grimly as he roared past it

  -

  and another - and another.

  Snaper and Hooley were guiding The Shadow to their hangout without the slightest knowledge that a tiny hole in their gas tank was lighting the way.

  The trail ended in an unexpected spot. A curving drive led in through dark

  grounds to a stately three-story house perched almost on the cliff edge that flanked the dark, wind-tossed surface of Long Island Sound. The Shadow drove past the place without stopping. He came presently to an all-night filling station and bought oil and gas. He had removed his black disguise and was again

  the suave Lamont Cranston.

  From the talkative pump dealer he learned that the pretentious house down the road belonged to a couple of wealthy Wall Street brokers. John Piper and Harold McCoy. He smiled as the dealer described them.

  Piper was Bert Hooley, without any doubt at all. Joe Snaper was using the McCoy alias. Apparently, they had leased the big frame dwelling only recently.

  TEN minutes later, The Shadow was cautiously gliding toward the house, his

  movements hidden by the restless roar of wind through the wildly tossing trees on the front lawn. Beyond the cliff on which the house was perched The Shadow could catch a glimpse of the Sound. Even in the darkness, the white froth was visible. A storm was roaring up with gale intensity.

  The Shadow relied on this fact, as well as his black enveloping disguise, to aid him in getting into the house unnoticed.

  He failed to reckon on the presence of a watchdog. The animal was tethered

  on a long chain to a tree. It began to bark loudly.<
br />
  The Shadow halted. He was watching the lighted windows on the top floor of

  the silent house. The shades were drawn, but suddenly the shadow of a man darkened the white square at the left window.

  A face peered. For a minute or so it remained, while the dog continued to bark loudly. Then, evidently reassured that the sound meant nothing serious, the face withdrew.

  The Shadow had studied that countenance through a pair of tiny binoculars.

  Before it jerked away he knew exactly who it was. A man who, so far, had not been evident in this strange case at all. A thin-faced, pockmarked little gunman named "Squint" Maddigan.

  To The Shadow, the fact that Squint was present in this remote house on the shore of Long Island Sound was a disturbing thing; cause for instant action. For wherever Squint went, there also went Paul Rodney, one of the wealthiest big-shots of the underworld.

  The Shadow had hitherto, on the basis of reports received from his undercover agents, decided that Paul Rodney and his evil little henchman Squint, were waging war against Hooley and Snaper for possession of Arnold Dixon's vast wealth. He knew now that the lure was the fabulous Cup of Confucius.

  And the criminal conspiracy was deeper than even The Shadow had surmised.

  It included the two original blackmailers, Dixon's own son - and now Squint and

  his brown-bearded boss.

  The Shadow lost no time in forcing an entrance to the mysterious house.

  He

  circled it warily twice, then decided upon the cellar.

  Five minutes after The Shadow began his patient work at the rear cellar window, he was inside and the window closed softly behind him.

  THE SHADOW ascended a flight of boxed-in wooden stairs. He could hear nothing except the faint squeaks of mice in the dark cellar. But The Shadow's feet made no sound on the wooden steps that led to the ground floor.

  He opened the door at the head of the stairs with infinite caution. He peered for a long time before he moved from concealment. He was surprised to discover that every light on the ground floor was now ablaze. He was certain that when he had stared upward from the grounds outside, only the top floor had

  been lighted.

  The slow, scraping sound of descending feet on the main staircase of the house caused The Shadow to back hastily toward the cellar door from which he had recently emerged. He had a partial view of the staircase, and he left the cellar door open a bare inch or so and waited.