The Cup of Confucious s-125

by Maxwell Grant

  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.

  "Perhaps I'd better wait in the library while you gentlemen transact your business," The Shadow remarked in Cranston's quiet tone.

  THE SHADOW followed the butler down a long gloomy hall, around a corner cut sharply in the length of the corridor and so into a massively built room with bookshelves lining the wall solidly on all sides.

  There was a deck of cards lying on the oaken surface of a heavy antique table and a leather chair was drawn up close to the table edge. But otherwise the library was empty. There was no sign of Bruce.

  Charles was drifting quietly away when Cranston's curt voice halted him.

  "Just a moment, please. Where's Bruce?"

  "I'm sure I don't know, sir."

  "He said he was coming in here. Do you happen to know where he went?"

  "No, sir. I don't."

  Charles was getting more and more nervous under the curt questioning of
this well-dressed clubman with the piercing eyes.

  "It's not my place to - er - follow the movements of Mr. Bruce," he murmured, his whole manner defiant.

  "Is it your place to discuss his character and his personality with Mr.

  Timothy?" The Shadow asked, sharply. "Do you suppose your employer would like to know that you are in doubt about the paternity of his son?"

  Charles straightened as if he had been shot. His face became pale with fright.

  "You - you heard me talking to Mr. Timothy, to-night? Who - who are you, sir? Not a - detective?"

  "I'm a friend of Mr. Arnold Dixon. A word from me will lose you your job, Charles. Let that be a warning to you to answer my questions and to say nothing

  afterward. What do you really knew about Snaper and Hooley?"

  "Nothing, sir. I swear it!"

  "You're sure that you don't know where Bruce disappears when these men call twice a month on his father?"

  "I don't know."

  The Shadow studied the butler narrowly.

  "Very well. We'll drop that matter, for the present." He listened rigidly for a moment. "I want you to leave this library at once and remain in the hall near the front door. You understand?"

  "Yes, sir."

  "When you hear Hooley and Snaper coming out of Mr Dixon's study, I want you to cough twice. I have keen ears and will hear you."

  "I understand, sir."

  Charles left with frightened haste, taking care, however, to make no sound.

  THE SHADOW waited a moment, then he approached the library window. It was locked, but he found the catch, released it and lifted the heavy sash.

  Thrusting his head out into the darkness, he stared toward the projecting of the house where the study was located and where - this was The Shadow's shrewd guess - the valuable collection of Chinese pottery was probably stored on one of the upper floors.

  He could see nothing of the scene inside Dixon's study. The shade was drawn on the only window within range of his vision. But, veering his eyes about the grounds that stretched black and formless under the stars, he was suddenly aware of furtive motion.

  A figure was gliding rapidly between the shaggy masses of two adjacent bushes. A man! - bent low toward the ground, with something rigid in his hand that looked suspiciously like the outline of a gun. The man was gone before The