The Golden Quest

CHAPTER II. THE TELEPHONE CLUE

AT half past four the next afternoon, a sallow-faced man was standing by the window of a lofty hotel room, looking idly out across Manhattan. With eyes that blinked beady from between slitted lids; with dark, pointed mustache trimmed to a thin line, this individual exhibited a shrewd appearance.

From the gloating smile that showed upon his pasty lips, the sallow man would have impressed an observer as being a schemer deluxe. Alone in this room, he had no reason to veil his true type. Craftiness showed unrestricted on his jaundice-tinged countenance.

This man was James Jubal, star promoter of the fading Chalice Gold Mine. He was the swindler whom Cortland Laspar had mentioned to Rex Brodford, less than twenty-four hours ago.

Retaining his distorted smile, Jubal ran long-nailed fingers through a crop of sleek, black hair. He chuckled with contempt as he viewed the pygmy figures of the throngs in the streets below. James Jubal was a man with but little human sympathy. People, to him, were nothing more than potential victims for sharp double-dealing.

A telephone bell tingled. Jubal turned from the window and picked up the instrument. He raised the receiver, then spoke in a silky purr that he used in usual conversation.

“This is James Jubal speaking…”

A wheezy voice interrupted across the wire. Jubal recognized it. His purring tone ended. He spoke quickly, in terse, brusque phrases:

“Yes, Firth…” Jubal was talking to old Ezra Brodford’s servant. “You say he is back… Yes, a visit to the lawyer… I see. You’re calling from a drug store… Go ahead… Yes, tell me more…

“You told me last night that young Brodford might go to Michigan… What’s that? You’re sure he is going? I see… Bought his ticket and reservations this afternoon… That’s news, all right… Midnight train, you say…”

A pause. Firth’s voice wheezed in Jubal’s ear. The swindler listened; then gave brief instructions.

“I’ll call young Brodford myself,” he announced. “Yes… Right away… Yes, you go back to the house… I’ll make an appointment for this evening… Yes, you be ready to cooperate… All right, Firth, give me the number…”

JUBAL listened; while he did so, he picked up a pencil from the table and made a notation on a pad that was attached to the telephone. He ended his call with Firth. Then Jubal jiggled the hook for the operator.

Receiving an answer, he repeated the telephone number that Firth had given him.

A minute passed. Then came a voice. The tone was a quiet, easy “Hello.” Jubal began to speak in his accustomed purr.

“Hello…” Jubal smiled as he spoke. “Mr. Brodford? Mr. Rex Brodford? My name is Jubal, James Jubal. Dealer in investments. Gold mines, in particular. I want to talk to you about an excellent offering…

“Chalice Gold Mines is the security that I am selling… A Michigan venture… What’s that? No, no… You have been misinformed, Mr. Brodford. The Chalice mine is located in an ideal district…

“The Quest Gold Mine? Certainly, I have heard of it… Yes, I know that you hold stock in the Quest mine… Yes, that is how I learned your name… Suppose, Mr. Brodford, that we get together and talk over the matter of mines in Michigan. It will prove to your advantage.

“Yes, tonight would be excellent… I can be there by half past ten… Your address? Perhaps you had better give it to me. I would prefer to call at your home… Certainly, to be free from disturbance…”

Jubal made new notations on his pad. He marked down the address of the Brodford residence and added the note “10:30 p.m.;” then, in suave fashion, the promoter concluded the telephone call.

The smile that appeared upon Jubal’s lips showed that the swindler was counting heavily upon his appointment with Rex Brodford.

A rap sounded at the door of the room. Jubal twisted about, nervously. He shot a suspicious glance toward the barrier; then laughed slightly. He strolled over and opened the door. A young man was standing in the hallway.

JUBAL eyed the visitor. He saw a keen-looking chap of about thirty, a man who looked prosperous and clean-cut. The promoter’s beady eyes encountered a frank gaze.

“Mr. James Jubal?” inquired the arrival, in a steady but affable tone.

“Yes,” returned Jubal.

“I am Harry Vincent,” announced the young man, extending his hand. “I tried to call you from the lobby, but your telephone was busy—”

“Step right in, Mr. Vincent,” exclaimed Jubal, receiving the handshake. “Over here. Take the chair by the window. I had forgotten that you might drop in today.

“Well, Vincent” — Jubal added the comment as he produced a cigar from his pocket — “it is indeed a pleasure to meet you. At last, we have been able to get together. But I have bad news for you.”

“Regarding the Chalice mine stock?” inquired the visitor.

“Yes,” replied Jubal. “I have been unable to acquire any more shares. There are absolutely none on the market!”

“That’s odd, Mr. Jubal. My friend Mann assured me that a purchase would be possible.”

“Mann is a conservative investment broker. He is not familiar with stocks of the Chalice mine type. You understand, of course, that the Chalice mine is a speculative venture?”

“I do. But I was certain that shares still remained unsold. Mann said—”

“Mann probably said that shares were available. In a sense, he is right. Much of the Chalice mine stock is unsold. But” — Jubal paused emphatically — “those particular shares are under option. They can not be acquired until released by the option holders.”

Harry Vincent nodded his understanding.

“This very afternoon” — Jubal spread his arms in a gesture of despair — “I talked to three option holders, begging them to release shares that were wanted by customers such as you. They refused me. Every one of them refused me!” Jubal pounded his right fist against his left palm. “All three said that they intended to exert their options; moreover, they announced that they were in the market for further shares, could I obtain them.”

“The Chalice mine must be a good proposition,” observed Harry.

“It is,” assured Jubal. “One that has been retarded, I must admit; but that happens frequently with mining projects. Flooded shafts; ruined equipment; transportation difficulties — all took heavy toll. But those expenditures will be recuperated. I have faith in the Chalice Gold Mine. Real faith, Mr. Vincent.”

JUBAL sleeked back his hair. He engaged in momentary meditation, while Harry eyed him in quiet fashion.

Glancing about, Jubal looked toward the telephone. He spied the pad on which he had written Rex Brodford’s telephone number and address, with the time of appointment.

Stepping over, Jubal tore the top sheet from the pad. He glanced at it and nodded. Harry could see the promoter reading comments; but the paper was turned so that only Jubal noted the markings. Jubal folded the paper and thrust it into his vest pocket.

“A long-distance call,” he remarked. “I must make it at once, Mr. Vincent. To Chicago. Suppose you remain here while I go downstairs.”

Harry started to rise from his chair by the window. Jubal stopped him.

“No, no,” assured the promoter, “do not misunderstand me. It would be quite all right for you to listen in on the call. But in order to keep my personal expense accounts straight, so they will not be added to the hotel bill, I like to pay cash for my phone calls.

“That is why I prefer to go downstairs to a public pay station. I shall not be more than ten minutes. I can call from the drug store in the next block. Make yourself quite at home, Mr. Vincent.”

With this, Jubal made a prompt departure, leaving Harry Vincent puffing at his cigar. As soon as Jubal had gone, a grim smile showed on the visitor’s steady lips.

Harry Vincent had been seeking James Jubal with a definite purpose. Ostensibly a young New Yorker with a private income, Harry actually played a hidden but adventurous role. He was an agent of The Shadow. A secret aid to an amazing master who battled all undercurrents of crime.

The Shadow had learned of James Jubal. He knew that the suave man was a swindler. The Shadow had delegated Harry Vincent to contact with Jubal and learn the details of the fake promoter’s game. Harry had started his appointed task.

He had made a mistake in the beginning. By way of introduction to Jubal — through correspondence — Harry had mentioned the name of Rutledge Mann, a New York investment broker.

Mann, like Harry, was a secret agent of The Shadow.

Jubal did not suspect that fact. But Jubal did know that Mann was a dealer in reputable securities. The swindler had therefore suspected that Harry Vincent might be out to trap him. To counteract Harry’s efforts, Jubal had been cagey in all his references to the Chalice Gold Mine.

Jubal did not want Harry Vincent on the “sucker list.” Harry knew it. But he was making the best of a bad beginning, seeking to lull Jubal. Harry had managed this visit as his first actual meeting with the swindler.

Fifteen minutes passed. Harry had finished his cigar. Jubal had not returned.

The telephone bell jingled. It repeated. Harry answered it. He heard Jubal’s voice.

“Mr. Vincent?” Jubal’s purr was smooth across the wire. “Sorry to have kept you waiting. Listen, old man; I have to go to Chicago. Just time to catch the next train. I’ve just checked out, downstairs.”

“Wait for me in the lobby,” suggested Harry.

“I can’t,” protested Jubal. “The cab is waiting. Call me next week, old fellow. Good-by.”

THE receiver clicked at the other end. Harry Vincent hung up his own telephone. He smiled sourly. He looked about the room, opened a closet door, and saw emptiness. No trace of luggage. James Jubal must have checked all his belongings downstairs.

The rogue had pulled a stall. Harry knew it and felt disgruntled. He should have suspected the game in the beginning; but Jubal had pulled it smoothly. The swindler had dropped Harry like a hot potato.

Chicago? Harry shook his head. That city would not be Jubal’s destination. Perhaps the man intended to remain in New York. If there were only some trace of Jubal’s real objective, this investigation would not be a total failure.

A thought struck Harry Vincent. The Shadow’s agent went to the telephone and examined the pad. He saw marks on the upper sheet: the piece of paper that had been directly beneath the one which Jubal had torn away.

Harry took the pad and carried it to the window. The tracing was illegible; nevertheless, it was the only clue. Finding an envelope, Harry inserted the pad, pocketed it and picked up hat and coat. He strolled from the hotel room.

TWENTY minutes later, Harry Vincent entered the inner office of a suite that was located high in the towering Badger Building. Seated at a mahogany desk, Harry found a chubby-faced man who extended a hand in lethargic fashion. This gentleman was Rutledge Mann.

Briefly, Harry told of his visit to Jubal’s. Mann listened; then stared reflectively from the window, eyeing the pinnacles of Manhattan’s sky line. Then Mann turned and spoke in deliberate fashion.

“It was a mistake,” he granted, “to mention my name. Jubal realized that I would not have sent a customer to him. However, the damage has been done. I shall forward your report.”

“And this goes with it,” put in Harry, extending the envelope that contained the pad.

“Yes,” agreed Mann. “And in the meantime, Vincent, remain at your own hotel.”

Harry Vincent took his leave.

Rutledge Mann found a ready sheet of paper and used a fountain pen to inscribe a message in ink of vivid blue. This writing was in code. Mann allowed the ink to dry; then folded the sheet promptly and inserted it in an envelope. With it he placed the pad that Harry had brought.

It was after half past five. Mann arose, left his office, and took an elevator to the street. There he entered a taxi and rode to Twenty-third Street. Dusk was settling as the chubby-faced investment broker approached an old, dilapidated building.

Mann entered the antiquated structure and ascended a flight of rickety stairs. He followed a dingy hallway and stopped in front of a secluded door. Upon a grimy glass panel appeared the name:

Mann dropped his envelope in a mail chute in the door. That done, the investment broker strolled away.

His part had been completed. That office served as The Shadow’s mail box. Later, the mysterious chief would call and obtain the envelope.

The telephone clue had been passed to The Shadow. A slender thread amid a skein of approaching complications; yet it was destined to bring The Shadow into contact with a strange trail of coming crime.