The Cup of Confucious s-125

by Maxwell Grant

  "Quiet! Not a sound, if you value your life!"

  Clyde Burke had turned so that he was watching the door of the chamber.

  At

  a sign from Vincent he backed noiselessly away, so that the opening door would hide any trace of himself or Vincent from whoever was creeping up the stairs of

  the old mansion.

  It was obvious to both agents of The Shadow that some one was creeping up the staircase outside.

  Arnold Dixon remained silent in his chair, his eyes watching the white knob of the door.

  Slowly, the knob began to turn. The door moved inch by inch. It was opening!

  A face peered cautiously. Dixon cried out in hoarse terror as he saw a clipped brown beard and hard, pinpoint eyes. It was Paul Rodney.

  "QUIET!" Rodney snarled. "One more yelp like that and you get it for keeps, old man!"

  His foxy glance convinced him that except for the trussed Dixon in the chair, the room was empty. He was unable to see Harry Vincent and Clyde Burke, hidden by the barrier of the open door. Even had he peered past it, the two agents of The Shadow would still have been invisible, for they had backed into the opening of a deep closet.

  Rodney laughed suddenly. "Okay, Squint. Come on in! Somebody's been here ahead of us. Did us a favor by tying the old boy up. They must have heard us sneaking in the window downstairs and scrammed."

  Squint crept into the room. His beady eyes wrinkled with pleasure.

  "How about a little torture stuff, first?"

  "That's out! Torture is all you're interested in, you little devil!"

  It was Dixon who betrayed the hidden agents of The Shadow. He didn't mean to. He did it unconsciously by the fixed glare of his frightened eyes. Squint whirled and uttered a quick yell of warning.

  Both crooks fired at the open closet.

  There came answering bullets that made the two thugs skip backward hastily

  out of range. Vincent and Burke had thrown themselves prudently to the closet floor as Squint yelled.

  They sprang out now, determined to save Arnold Dixon from death. Their very boldness turned the tide of battle. Rodney, not knowing how many enemies he had to deal with, and worried by the thought that the house might be surrounded by police, backed swiftly toward the door, his gun jetting scarlet.

  Squint had already beaten his boss to safety. But Rodney lingered a moment

  in the doorway, braving the spurt of lead that boomed from Vincent's gun and splintered the casing all about him.

  Vincent's poor aim was due to his jerky movements. He was leaping away from the trussed millionaire in the chair, hoping to draw Rodney's fire and save the life of the hapless man.

  Burke darted across the room and sent the chair toppling backward to the door. His action was all that kept Dixon from receiving a bullet squarely in the forehead.

  Rodney's last shot was timed with a quick motion of his free hand to his pocket. His arm jerked and a small object fell to the floor and exploded.

  There

  was no sound except a glassy tinkle. Instantly, streamers of white vapor shot into the air. It spread in a dense fog, obscured the crook in the doorway.

  Tear gas!

  COUGHING, Vincent crept on hands and knees to the door. His outflung arms met only vacant air. Rodney had fled under cover of his gas barrage. His feet thundered down the staircase. Vincent made no effort to follow him, although his whole body burned with the grim desire to overtake and capture Rodney and his ugly little henchman.

  Duty to the stern commands of The Shadow kept Vincent in that room. He could not leave the room until the orders were changed. So he staggered to his feet and helped Burke throw open the window and dissipate the thick, choking fumes.

  The fallen Dixon was moaning faintly in his overturned chair.

  "Are you hurt?" Clyde Burke cried.

  "No, no! Lift me up. My arm's doubled under me. I'm afraid it's broken!"

  The two agents of The Shadow righted the chair with a quick heave between them. Their faces were grim.

  Clyde and Harry reloaded their guns. The first attack had been beaten off,

  but there might be another.

  DOWN in the tangled shrubbery of the grounds, Squint and Rodney fled toward the road. Squint, the faster of the two, was in the lead. It was he who swerved with a startled cry.

  He saw the same black-cloaked figure that Bruce Dixon had seen earlier.

  It

  rose like an ascending wraith from the dark surface of the ground.

  Squint dodged as black-gloved hands reached for his throat. Gasping, he tripped over an unseen root and plunged heavily on his face.

  His mishap gave The Shadow time to deal with the more resolute Rodney. He closed with the snarling killer and disarmed him with a quick jerk of his wrist

  and hand. The gun flew off in a tangent and vanished.

  Rodney fought furiously, and for an instant seemed to be conquering The Shadow by the very fury of his fists. The Shadow gave ground, seemed to falter.

  But it was only a momentary weakness, and it changed to strength in the twinkling of an eye.

  The Shadow had seen Squint rising to his feet. He threw Rodney aside with a tremendous shove and whirled to meet this new menace.

  Squint was no match at all for The Shadow. He screamed as his arm-bone scraped in the socket of his shoulder. The gun he had tried to fire slipped from his pain-loosened fingers. Moaning, he reeled backward, intent only on getting away from this black-robed wraith that had risen to block his escape.

  The Shadow wanted Squint to flee. It left him free to deal with Rodney, who was again charging like a clumsy bear. The same thing that had happened when The Shadow fought his battle with Bruce Dixon was now repeated. He began to fight defensively, as if he had lost heart.

  Rodney thought he had The Shadow at last. But The Shadow, slipping suddenly away, ran like a deer in a direction opposite to that taken by Squint.

  As he ran, a paper fluttered to the ground.

  Paul Rodney, who had eyes like a cat, saw the paper fall and abandoned his

  plan to pursue his antagonist. He reached, scooped up the paper. Hastily scratching a match, he read its contents.

  Laughter issued from his throat. He was staring at an exact duplicate of the paper that Bruce Dixon had found.

  RODNEY whirled, followed the path Squint had taken. It took him to a gate in the stone wall. He darted through, raced toward the car where Squint was already behind the wheel. The car's headlights were dark, but the engine was throbbing harshly under the hood.

  "You rat!" Rodney cried, fiercely. "Were you going to scram and leave me here?"

  "Hell, no!" Squint whispered. "I wanted to be all set for the get-away.

  Get in, quick! We're licked if we don't scram in a hurry!"

  "Licked nothing," Rodney purred. "I got something to show you, as soon as we're on our way. Drive straight for the Carruthers house - that burned-down dump where we croaked Snaper and Hooley."

  "Why there? That's a devil of a place to hide out."

  "It is? It's the best place in the world to find the Cup of Confucius!

  The

  Shadow made a bad mistake to-night. He tipped his hand!"

  While the car rocked along, Rodney held a scrap of paper before Squint's eyes so the ugly little chauffeur could read it.

  The car increased its speed. The whine of the rubber tires on the dark highway was like an ominous croon of death.

  UPSTAIRS in the Dixon mansion there was tense quiet. Arnold Dixon's hands were no longer bound. He trusted Harry Vincent and Clyde Burke now. His beseeching eyes seemed to implore them not to leave him.

  Vincent watched the square outline of the open window. Clyde kept his attention riveted on the door. They were armed and ready. They had heard sounds

  of a furious fight taking place somewhere below in the estate.

  It might mean a renewed attack from the staircase or from the sheer surface of the ivy-covered wall. Vin
cent knew that a determined man could climb

  that wall, if he were desperate enough. He gave it tense, undivided attention.

  The stone that flew without warning through the open window almost struck Vincent's hunched shoulder. It landed with a thump on the floor, rebounded against the wall.

  Vincent pounced on the object before he saw clearly what it was. His first

  thought was that it might be a bomb. But it was a plain, jagged stone. A sheet of paper was wrapped about it, tied securely in place with a tight loop of cord.

  Harry Vincent ripped the cord loose, spread the paper flat under his eager

  eyes. He uttered a low exclamation.

  The paper contained a hasty scrawl in a hand that was familiar to Harry.

  There was no doubt in his mind but that The Shadow had written this message.

  The note was terse. Vincent frowned, but Clyde Burke's eyes gleamed when he read it:

  Vincent remain with Arnold Dixon. Do not leave under any circumstance.

  Burke report immediately to burned house on shore road. Signal sparrow chirp.

  Speed.

  Clyde Burke whirled, his face aglow with delight. Vincent showed no sign of the disappointment that filled him. He merely extended his hand, said "Good luck!" and watched Clyde race from the room. He heard Clyde depart on the motor

  cycle on which he had come out from New York.

  CHAPTER XVII

  THE INDIAN'S NOSE

  IT was pitch-dark in the tool shed where Bruce had so callously thrust William Timothy and his niece. The lawyer couldn't see Edith Allen, but the sound of her shrill scream made his ears tingle.

  "Quiet!" he told Edith. "Screaming won't help us get out. I have the means

  of escaping from here in less than five minutes!"

  His sharp whisper was confident. Edith became silent. In the darkness, she

  could hear the scratch of a match. Light flared. Timothy was holding the match high over his head. He uttered an exclamation of satisfaction when he saw the vertical wire of an electric droplight.

  There was a click and the windowless prison of the tool shed became bright

  with illumination.

  "Search the shelves," Edith cried, eagerly. "There must be a chisel, or something."

  "A chisel won't help a bit," Timothy replied, evenly. "I know the strength

  of that door - and the strength of the lock, too."

  His smile deepened.

  "Luckily, I was suspicious about what we might run into here to-night. I came prepared for an emergency."

  As he spoke he fished a circlet of keys from his pocket. They were skeleton keys. He knelt at the keyhole of the door and began to manipulate them

  with trembling fingers. Then he left the door abruptly and began to rummage along the shelves at the back of the shack. He was looking for a length of stout cord and he found a piece that satisfied him.

  "Cord?" Edith inquired in a puzzled tone. "What's that for?"

  "For you, my dear," the lawyer cried, softly - and sprang at her.

  TIMOTHY was gentle as possible, but Edith was unable to elude the firm grasp that caught her and held her helpless. The cords were tied swiftly, in spite of her furious efforts. He laid her on the floor, surveyed her with a panting apology.

  "I'm sorry," he muttered in a shamefaced tone. "It's for your own good, Edith. This is the safest place you can be to-night, and I mean for you to stay

  here."

  "You're afraid to trust me," she sobbed. "You think I'm still in love with

  Bruce!"

  He nodded. His hands shook. But there was no relenting in his steady eyes.

  "It will take all my nerve and energy to protect myself," he muttered. "I can't be bothered with the presence of a woman."

  He sprang back to the door. One of his skeleton keys had really fitted the

  lock, although Edith had been unaware of it at the time. Timothy threw open the

  door, quickly slipped into the darkness.

  He ran noiselessly toward the mansion. As he darted past the side wing, he

  glanced warily up. The house itself was in darkness except for two lighted rooms. One was on the upper story: the bedroom of Arnold Dixon. The second lighted room was on the ground floor.

  The lawyer approached this latter spot. The frame of the window showed unmistakable signs of a forced entry. The rug on the floor looked rumpled and scuffed as if a furious fight had taken place within at some recent moment.

  Yet

  there was no sign of a human being lurking within.

  Timothy crouched back from the window, wondering uneasily what he ought to

  do. As he stood there, half turned to protect himself from a sudden attack at his rear, his startled glance saw a tiny square of white paper lying on the grass. It was visible because of the slanting rays of light that issued from the window.

  Bending swiftly, the lawyer snatched it. He read the note on it with incredulous amazement. It was the same bait that The Shadow had left with Bruce

  Dixon. Bruce had dropped it as he sprang swiftly from the room after his rather

  easy "victory" over The Shadow.

  The lawyer realized the significance of his find as quickly as Bruce had before him. It was obvious that some one - just who, the worried lawyer found it impossible to decide - had unearthed the secret hiding place of the missing Cup of Confucius.

  The typed memo under the cryptic lines above was proof of that. And the memo made the whereabouts of the cup ridiculously clear. All that was needed now was resolute determination, and speed.

  WILLIAM TIMOTHY hastened away through the darkness, unmindful of the painful limp that came from the partly cured arthritis in his foot.

  He found his car where he had left it and drove swiftly along the deserted

  road that led to the blackened ruin of the old Carruthers house. He drove past it and parked his car in a branching lane that cut inward through pine and spruce, away from the direction of the near-by Sound.

  When Timothy returned to the Carruthers property, he was on foot and his movements were cautious. The house had been almost completely obliterated by the roaring flames that had consumed it. The only remnants were a few charred ends of beams that protruded from blackened foundation walls.

  Timothy's watchful eyes gleamed as he saw a patch of blackness on the earth midway between the ruin and himself. The black patch had seemed to move slightly. It was almost the exact size of a crouching man - a man who might be wearing a dark, concealing cloak and a wide-brimmed slouch hat drawn low over burning eyes and a hawklike nose.

  The Shadow!

  Timothy drew his gun, a small glittering automatic. The patch was no longer moving. He circled cautiously, approached from the rear. Suddenly, he gasped. The thing had been a trick of Timothy's overwrought imagination.

  Starlight had made that patch of blackness seem to move. It was merely a small area of charred ground where a blazing timber had fallen and burned away the grass to a blackened bald spot.

  Chuckling with relief, Timothy circled the ruin and approached the brow of

  the cliff that overlooked Long Island Sound. He descended the stone steps cut in

  the face of the cliff.

  A FEW moments after the lawyer had vanished, there was a faint pop-pop from down the road. A motor cycle approached, its motor muffled. Clyde Burke dismounted hastily, wheeled the machine out of sight. He hurried to the ruin of

  the Carruthers house.

  He pursed his lips. The sound of a chirping sparrow filled the smoky air with brief clarity.

  It was answered from the foundations of the ruined house. A black-gloved hand beckoned. Calm lips issued orders. Clyde listened attentively to the words.

  When The Shadow had finished, Clyde was in complete knowledge of what was required of him. He nodded to show that he understood. There was utter amazement on his face. The Shadow had told him things that seemed completely incredible. But knowing The S
hadow's methods, the absolute logic of his thoughts and actions, Clyde was ready to obey him.

  The two hurried to the brow of the cliff and descended the stone steps to the platform at the water's edge. There was no sign of William Timothy. The Shadow's gloved hand pointed to the cliff wall two or three feet above the tide

  mark where the restless waters of the Sound lapped the foot of the rocky precipice.

  Exposed by the low tide was a perfect replica of an Indian's head. The freak rock formation was in profile and the face pointed away from the float on

  which Clyde and The Shadow stood.

  The Shadow held a length of rope in his hand. The end was directly over the bold outline of the Indian's nose. Clutching the loose end of the rope, Clyde lowered himself into the water and swam slowly away. The rope straightened. It touched the black surface of the water a dozen feet to the left of the platform.

  Clyde's hand dipped beneath the surface at this exact point. His groping fingers felt no rock. There was a hole in the cliff below the water. It was the

  entrance to a submerged tunnel.

  Clyde drew in a long breath of air. He dived. Relying implicitly upon the instructions that The Shadow had given him, he swam through a long gallery filled completely with salt water from floor to roof.

  THE floor of the tunnel swerved sharply upward and The Shadow's agent emerged gasping into air-filled darkness. He had been given a tiny flashlight and he sent its beam into the gloom. The gallery continued upward for a few yards farther. Its stone floor was dry.

  There were muddy footprints, showing that some one had preceded Clyde into

  this queer crypt within the cliff. Perhaps more than one, if The Shadow's warning had been correct. Other footmarks had evaporated. Only Timothy's still showed.

  Clyde was very careful with his tiny light, as he moved onward. He descended a suddenly steeper slope to what looked like a natural doorway in the

  rock tunnel. The round hole was open, but the means for closing it was close at

  hand.

  A rounded boulder was propped against the wall, midway down the slant.

  Beside it rested a rusted crowbar.

  Both boulder and crowbar were relics of an earlier day of criminal activity. This cliff and the house above it had been the headquarters of a powerful gang of rumrunners. The Shadow had uncovered the story from backfiles of newspapers, after he had penetrated to the secret of the underground cave.