The Cup of Confucious s-125

by Maxwell Grant

  They shook hands again and The Shadow took his departure.

  AS he walked up Fifth Avenue and hailed a bus in the morning sunshine, the

  face of The Shadow was grimly taut.

  He was convinced now that Donald Perdy, alias Paul Rodney, was the supercrook whose presence he had suspected since he had first read the brief newspaper item about "Trouble at Shadelawn." Perdy must be the man who had sent

  that mysterious burglar "Spud Wilson" on his mission to the millionaire's home.

  No one but Perdy could have blown up the unfortunate Wilson in that parked

  car outside the vacant lot. Perhaps Wilson had tried to double-cross his criminal overlord. If he had, his death had been prompt and horrible. Like the savage deaths that had been handed to the two blackmailers, Snaper and Hooley.

  The Shadow had long since eliminated those latter two from the case. They had been cheap crooks, blundering into something far more sinister than their demands for hush money. They had paid the price in that flaming house on the rocky cliff above Long Island Sound.

  From now on, the struggle was between Perdy and The Shadow. Not only Perdy! Bruce Dixon, too! The old man's son had stolen the Cup of Confucius. He had been waylaid and deprived of it by Snaper and Hooley. The priceless cup was

  now missing.

  The only clue to its whereabouts was in The Shadow's possession. But Bruce's guilt was becoming clearer. Arnold Dixon's son was leagued with the sinister Perdy in an effort to recover the cup and perhaps murder his own father!

  CHAPTER XIII

  THE MAN IN THE GARAGE

  WHILE The Shadow was riding slowly northward atop a Fifth Avenue bus, Bruce Dixon was listening intently to the hoarse, frightened voice of his father.

  "I tell you, my mind is made up, Bruce," the older man said. "It's the only way! By changing my will, I can check, at one stroke, the criminal designs

  of whoever is trying to kill me and get hold of my fortune."

  He stopped short, his arm flung out in a nervous gesture. Then he resumed his worried pacing of the room.

  "I think you're overestimating the importance of these attacks," Bruce said. His face was pale. He choked, seemed to have difficulty in speaking. "I

  -

  I refuse to have the will changed in my favor! There's no especial need for it,

  dad."

  There was no depth in his hesitant tone. Yet his father, alarmed by the events of the past few days, took no especial notice. A stroke of the pen would

  make Bruce his father's sole heir, as he had been before he had left home, following the quarrel over his evil ways that had made him a wanderer for ten long years. From his words, it appeared that he did not want to be made heir.

  Yet his manner, the sidelong glance of his eyes seemed to indicate otherwise.

  "No especial need?" his father echoed. "How can you say that, when my home

  has been invaded and the Cup of Confucius stolen!"

  "True enough," Bruce admitted, with that same queer hesitancy in his speech. "I - I only wish I had been at home when it happened. Did Mr. Timothy really catch a good glimpse of the thief?"

  "No such luck," Dixon groaned. "All he saw was the fellow's back as he leaped from the vine-covered wall and made his escape with the box that contained the cup."

  "Surely Timothy must have seen something of the thief's face," Bruce persisted. "He's a lawyer. He's accustomed to using his eyes and his ears. It seems strange he could get no - no description of the thief."

  "Not so strange," Arnold Dixon said, hollowly. "The night was dark. The fellow ran like a deer. Timothy thinks he must have been a young man. No older man could have escaped with such uncanny speed."

  "It might have been Snaper, or perhaps Hooley."

  "Nonsense! Both those rogues were too old. Besides, they had no idea that I possessed the Cup of Confucius. All they're interested in is blackmail. I've already told you the reason for their visits twice a month."

  "So you did," Bruce replied, evenly. "I wonder what's become of them.

  Have

  you heard anything further since they tried to torture you in that shack over near the Sound?"

  "Not a thing. I probably won't be bothered by them until it's time for the

  next blackmail payment."

  "BY the way," Bruce murmured. "Did you know there was a bad fire up the shore, last night? I saw the glare from my window. This morning's paper says it

  was the old Carruthers place. Owned by a couple of Wall Street brokers, I believe."

  Arnold Dixon nodded. He wasn't much interested in news of the fire. "I hope the owners escaped," he said, dully.

  "Luckily, they did," Bruce said in a low tone. "According to the morning paper, there was no one home at the time of the fire except a tramp who was seen at an upper window before the floors collapsed. The two brokers are apparently out West, traveling. The fire was obviously an arson job. Perhaps it's just as well the tramp was burned to death."

  "Perhaps. Now about this will -" Dixon's jaw set itself in stubborn lines.

  "Why do you object to me making it in your favor?"

  Bruce forced himself to smile.

  "You forget, father. I've only been home three months. I - I still remember the occasion of my leaving and the perfect right you had to cut me off." His face became paler. "I - I want you to be quite sure that I've reformed before you decide to will everything over in my favor."

  Arnold Dixon laid his hand gently on the young man's arm.

  "I don't want you ever again to refer to the unfortunate past," he said.

  "That's a closed chapter in both our lives. Thank God, you've come back to me in my old age! I'm satisfied you've reformed. No son could have been more thoughtful and kind than you have been in the past three months.

  "I have two excellent reasons for my will decision," Dixon continued,

  "regardless of my own fear. I want the money to stay in the family and not be dissipated by bequests to charity. You're in love with Edith Allen, my son.

  Are

  you not?"

  "Yes. I am."

  "I want you to marry her. She's a sweet, lovely girl. You're the last of the direct Dixon line. I want the name perpetuated. But more than that, once the fortune is legally willed to you, I have a feeling that the attempts on my life will cease. Are you convinced now that I'm doing the wise thing."

  Bruce shrugged. "Whatever you decide suits me," he said, huskily. There was perspiration on his face. He wiped it away surreptitiously, as his father strode to the telephone and summoned William Timothy to the mansion.

  It was the son's turn now to become restive. He walked impatiently up and down the room while he waited for the arrival of the lawyer.

  WILLIAM TIMOTHY came in with a brusque, springy step. It was evident that the news over the wire had disturbed him. He gave a quick glance toward the table where Bruce sat in shadow, but he was unable to catch the son's eyes.

  Bruce had picked up a magazine and was pretending to read it. He took no part in the angry discussion that followed.

  "You can't do this, Arnold," Timothy spluttered. "It's ridiculous!"

  "Ridiculous, hey?" Dixon rejoined. "I've a right to will my own money where I like, haven't I?"

  "Of course! But things have been so unsettled. You've been threatened with

  death. There's been a bold and amazing robbery right in your own home!"

  Again he stared covertly toward Bruce, but was unable to find any change of expression on the young man's face.

  In the end, Arnold Dixon settled the whole argument with a stubborn exclamation.

  "Very well, William. If you won't attend to your legal duty, I'll hire a lawyer who will!"

  Timothy shrugged. "In that case, there's nothing to do but sign the new document."

  He drew a lengthy typewritten paper from his briefcase.

  "This is an exact copy of the original will, the same as it was before Bruce left home and you - er - alte
red its provisions. I've dated it to-day.

  It

  leaves the house, your securities, your art collection, and every penny of your

  private fortune to Bruce. Is that what you want?"

  "That's what I want," Arnold Dixon said.

  "Very well. Sign here. We'll need two witnesses. Bruce, will you witness this document?"

  "Why not?" His voice was like ice.

  He rose, watched his father affix his signature with a tremulous movement of the pen. Then Bruce signed his name without a quiver. Charles, the butler, hastily summoned, became the other witness.

  Timothy, who was still angry at the way in which his advice had been disregarded, took his leave, refusing a glass of port which the old man offered

  him as a peace gesture.

  AS soon as the door closed behind the fuming lawyer, Arnold Dixon shivered. The quarrel had been a tax on his strength. Feebly, he said he'd go up-stairs and lie down.

  Bruce read his magazine with unseeing eyes for perhaps a quarter of an hour. Then he summoned the butler, had him bring his hat and coat.

  "I'm leaving for town," he said, softly. "You needn't tell my father about

  this. Let him sleep. I may telephone him later, from town. If he should wake before I phone, tell him I had some important business that may clear up certain difficulties. Good day, Charles."

  "Good day, sir."

  Charles hurried to the window the moment he had closed the door behind his

  employer's son. He was surprised to see that Bruce did not go back toward the garage. Instead, the young man walked along the gravel path for a few yards and

  then turned off into the shrubbery. He seemed to be examining the grounds with peculiar interest.

  After a while he vanished from view and Charles saw him no more, although he waited at the front window for a considerable time.

  Frowning, the butler went to the rear of the house and continued to clean silver, from which duty he had been interrupted. Charles had been at his task for nearly an hour, when he chanced to glance through the curtained window of the pantry.

  The garage was directly in his line of vision.

  His jaw sagged as he saw a familiar figure skulking close to the garage entrance. The figure was inserting a key in the locked door. The door swung open swiftly. The man appeared to be hasty, anxious to avoid being seen. But Charles recognized the pale profile that was turned momentarily toward him.

  It was Bruce Dixon! The young man who had left his father's house nearly an hour and a half earlier on the pretext that he was going to town!

  Charles dropped the ornate knife he was cleaning. He ran instantly toward a side door that was concealed by a wing of the house from a direct view of the

  garage. He slipped through the protecting bushes that lined the gravel drive.

  A

  moment later, he had reached the flank of the garage and was up on a box, trying to peer into the high side window above the level of his eyes.

  By straining upward on his toes, Charles was able to look through the glass pane. He saw Bruce working busily with a shining steel instrument. The automobile he was working on was the small car that Arnold Dixon always used when he drove alone. And Bruce was deliberately tampering with the steering mechanism!

  The sight unnerved the faithful butler. He gasped, rose higher on his toes

  to see better and the box under his feet shifted and collapsed with a noisy crash as it broke under the butler's weight.

  CHAPTER XIV

  THE QUARRY ROAD

  INSTANTLY, Charles turned to flee. He dived headlong for the protection of

  the circling bushes, hoping to slide out of sight before Bruce could rush from the garage and intercept him.

  But his hope was in vain. Charles was too old to compete in speed with the

  long legs of the younger man. He had taken barely three steps when Bruce came racing from the garage and sprang in front of him.

  The cry that bubbled on the butler's lips was cut short by a blow from Bruce. Dazed, barely conscious, he was lifted in a strong embrace and carried swiftly back into the garage.

  There was no sound from the silent mansion. Bruce waited a second to make sure that his attack on the butler had been unobserved. Then he closed the heavy garage door and the sound of his laughter was ugly. He kicked Charles brutally in the ribs until the slumped servant stirred and groaned.

  "You dog!" he snarled. "You cheap snooping rascal! Thought you'd do a little spying, eh? Well, you've just sealed your death warrant!"

  Charles was staring in terror. A new car that he had never seen before was

  parked in the front space of the garage. Directly opposite it was Arnold Dixon's

  personal car, whose mechanism Bruce had just finished tampering with.

  "Where - where did that new car come from?" Charles gasped.

  "I drove it in here, you fool! It's going to carry both of us, when we leave here presently."

  "You're kidnapping me?" Charles whispered.

  "I'm doing better than that. I'm killing you!"

  It was hard to believe that this was the same young man who had left the mansion by the front door only an hour and a half before. His good-looking face

  was stiff with rage. His lips were a thin murderous line.

  "You're not Dixon's real son!" Charles cried. "I was right! I warned Mr.

  Timothy! Help! Murder!"

  Bruce covered the cry with the pressure of his palm. A blow on the head ended all chance for the butler warning the old man in the silent mansion a few

  hundred yards away.

  DAZED, Charles saw his captor lift the garage telephone from its hook. He tried to shout, but his vocal cords were paralyzed. He heard the young man call

  his father's phone number - the private one in his father's room.

  "Hello, dad!" He was deliberately making his voice urgent, almost terrified. "This is Bruce. Dad, you've got to come to me - at once! I'm in New York!" His voice dropped to a purring whisper. "I've found out who stole the Cup of Confucius!"

  There was a pause, thinly filled by the squeak of his father's voice on the wire. Then again Bruce was speaking racing words, lying words, into the instrument. He gave an address in lower New York.

  "There are two of them in the apartment. The crook in the brown beard and a henchman of his. I'm calling from a drug store across the street. And they've

  got the cup with them, dad - I saw them carry it in!"

  "What shall I do?" Arnold Dixon's voice shrilled in far-away excitement.

  "Get your car. The small one. Drive as fast as you can to New York. I'll meet you in the drug store on the corner, opposite the address I've mentioned.

  And dad - don't take the regular road. It's too crowded with traffic; the thieves may get away from me before you arrive."

  His eyes were cold slits.

  "Take the winding road - the shortcut that runs past the stone quarries.

  You can make faster time, that way. I - I can't talk any longer. I'll be waiting!"

  Bruce hung up the receiver with a click. He heaved the fainting butler into the new car that was waiting with its motor purring softly. A moment later, the garage door opened and the car emerged.

  Bruce backed up and made a quick turn. With his eyes alertly on the rear of the mansion, he drove off along a weedy lane that traversed the back of the sprawling estate. It led to a wooden gate that opened on a back road.

  The road was unpaved, but Bruce stepped recklessly on the gas and sent the

  car hurtling along at a furious pace. Presently, he came to an intersection and

  took the left turn.

  The only vehicle that used this dangerous, winding road were the trucks that formerly ran to and from the quarry pits a mile or two onward. Now the pits were deserted, because of the business failure of the contractor who had owned them.

  Bruce slowed his reckless speed. He had to or risk the plunge of his car and himself down the
steep chasm of a deserted quarry pit. The road made a sharp S at this point as it wound past the enormous excavation in the earth.

  THE sweating son of Arnold Dixon drove around the first sharp swing of the

  S. He brought his car to a halt in the shadow of scraggly scrub oak and pine that lined the steep hillside opposite the quarry excavation.

  On the inner side of the curve was frail wooden guard-rail painted white.

  It was the only protection against a dizzy plunge to death. Bruce laughed as he

  saw it.

  He roped Charles's ankles and wrists and tossed the moaning butler into the weeds behind the shadow of his halted car.

  Charles made no outcry. His head lolled like a dead man's. He had fainted.

  That suited Bruce perfectly. Seizing a large tin of oil he ran back along the deserted road to the point where the concealed curve commenced. He spread a

  thick, wavering line of oil along the hard surface of the highway. Bruce's plan

  was simple.

  A car, racing along at high speed, would be forced to brake for the sharp turn. The oil under the wheels would cause an instant skid. The car, swerving toward the low wooden railing, would be doomed unless the driver, by a desperate wrench of the steering wheel, succeeded in easing it out of its skid.

  One such tug - and the tampered steering mechanism would snap.

  Bruce had one more detail to take care of any unforeseen hitch to his murderous plans. A light rifle lay on the floor of his own hidden car.

  Stationed out of sight behind the sweep of green leaves, he intended to put a bullet into the front tire of his father's automobile and explode it to a flat pancake.

  But only in case of emergency. He didn't want any bullet holes showing in the wrecked car. The oil on the road would be an impossible clue for a coroner's jury. Oil might mean carelessness, a leaky truck - almost anything.

  The jury would find the smashed bodies of Charles - Bruce intended to throw the

  butler's body after the car - and Arnold Dixon and return a verdict of accidental death caused by reckless driving.

  Such were the grim thoughts of the youthful killer as he reached into his parked car beyond the first curve and picked up the light rifle he had secreted