The Living Joss

CHAPTER XIII. THE SHADOW’S CLEWS

THE next day’s newspapers contained accounts of two murders. Westley Hartnett, prominent attorney, had been found slain in the living room of his apartment. Blaine Goodall, corporation president, had been killed while traveling along a lonely New Jersey road.

The difference in the circumstances surrounding these deaths was so apparent that no connection was made between them. Westley Hartnett had unquestionably been the victim of a fiendish killer. His case was one for the New York police.

Blaine Goodall, on the contrary, seemed to have been the victim of an unfortunate coincidence. Evidence in the form of tire tracks and dropped revolvers pointed to a gang fight between two mobs of gunmen.

Goodall, apparently, had been caught in between. Seeking escape, he had crashed through the side of a bridge. His case was one for the New Jersey State police.

Thus Joe Cardona, ace detective on the New York force, was concerned with Hartnett’s death alone.

The star sleuth required very little time to check up on the lawyer’s actions after he had reached his apartment.

Hartnett had spent the evening at Barton Schofield’s. Cardona corroborated that fact by telephone. He had arrived home shortly before midnight. Some time between then and morning — his body was discovered at eight o’clock, by the woman who came to clean the apartment — a slayer had entered to take the lawyer’s life.

When had the murder occurred? That fact was quickly ascertained. Medical inspectors affirmed that Hartnett must have been dead for nearly eight hours before his body was discovered. The fact that the lawyer was wearing his overcoat proved that he must have been slain shortly after he entered the apartment.

The murderer? On that point, Cardona could find no clew. His search of the apartment showed him nothing. The killer’s mode of entry and exit could have been by door or window. It looked like the work of a maniac.

But while Cardona pondered, with threads of evidence lacking, another in New York was engaged in more effective investigation. The Shadow, a peerless sleuth, had access to facts which would have amazed Detective Joe Cardona.

A BLUISH light was glimmering in the corner of a room which was pitch-dark save for that one illuminated spot. Beneath the focused rays of the shaded lamp, long white hands were at work upon a polished table.

From the third finger of the left hand glowed a mysterious gem which possessed a myriad of ever-changing hues. Its colorful depths — which fluctuated from crimson to azure, with all the shades between — flashed elusive sparks upward toward the light.

This stone was The Shadow’s girasol. A fire opal of priceless beauty, it served as the master’s lone talisman. Like The Shadow himself, the gem was a token of mystery and hidden power.

The right hand of The Shadow began to inscribe cryptic notations upon a sheet of paper. Moving like a detached thing of life, that hand set down important facts, beginning with the preliminary factors that had led to the sudden outburst of murderous crime.

As the hand wrote that name, hidden lips pronounced the single syllable in a mysterious whisper.

“Kwa.”

Since his return to Chinatown, intrigue had begun and crime had followed.

The Shadow had foreseen such events. Well did the master of darkness know the latent power that could be stirred to action within the confines of New York’s Chinatown. Seeking the root of evil, The Shadow had invaded the Chinese quarter to search for the Living Joss. While he had pursued that course, Kwa, still hidden, had stretched forth his hands of evil.

Strange links had come to The Shadow’s notice, but as he listed them, he observed that in this game of crime, coincidence might well have run side by side with evil design.

It was The Shadow’s task to analyze all facts, to join the broken links into a finished chain, neglecting those which were not part of the straight line.

Whispers in Chinatown. An American who understood the language, who had listened to talk of Kwa. A meeting of five men, two of whom were now dead!

In New York, police believed that Westley Hartnett had been slain by a maniac. In New Jersey, State troopers had classed Blaine Goodall as the chance victim of hijacking gangsters. But The Shadow knew the truth.

Westley Hartnett had been murdered by a swift-moving killer, who had worked with expert craftiness.

Agile as a monkey, this slayer had made an immediate escape. The Shadow knew that a creature had come out of Chinatown to commit that crime.

Blaine Goodall had been ambushed by armed fighters. They, however, had not been gangsters. Well did The Shadow know that fact! The headlights of his powerful speedster had shown Chinamen behind those revolvers which had failed against the leaden torrent from his automatics.

A second murderer: one who fought with might instead of stealth. Two minions of Kwa, fiendish foes to society, whose evil careers must be ended. The Shadow had sworn that these fiends would never again strike down a living man!

FIVE names appeared upon a sheet of paper as the hand of The Shadow wrote them there:

With solemn gesture, The Shadow crossed out the first two on the list. Hartnett and Goodall were dead.

Schofield was the next to be considered.

The yellow face! It had been at Schofield’s last night. Harry Vincent had seen it. He had observed the bounding form that bore the venomous visage. He had watched throughout the night, to make sure that the enemy did not return.

“Kwa!”

Again, the concealed lips of The Shadow repeated that insidious title. Eyes from the dark were glaring toward the table top. The Shadow knew well that some strange stroke was due to fall very soon at Barton Schofield’s home.

Twice had The Shadow sought to thwart the crimes designed by Kwa. Both events had taken place last night; in each case, fate had tricked The Shadow.

A knowing laugh came in shuddering tones. There was one way in which The Shadow could control the course of destiny. That was to plan his counter-stroke before a deed of crime could fall!

A long white forefinger tapped the crossed-out name of Westley Hartnett. Someone, The Shadow knew, had studied the dead lawyer’s actions. The lurking slayer at the apartment must have been guided by accurate information.

Another tap upon the eliminated name of Blaine Goodall. Here was direct evidence of contact. Someone, at the Union Club, had learned the route that Goodall was taking to Trenton. A false telephone call had eliminated Goodall’s friend, Beecham, from the trip.

The Shadow had dealt with many murderers. Superfiends whom he had encountered in the past would have had no scruples about slaying an unneeded victim such as Beecham. But here, The Shadow knew, was one who had no scruples, yet who did not care to deal in unnecessary death. Such a plotter was far beyond an ordinary criminal.

Kwa! The master mind who posed as the Living Joss had gained the services of some useful tool. This man must be one who could have visited Westley Hartnett and Blaine Goodall with equal ease; one, perhaps, who would have access to Barton Schofield’s home as well.

A laugh came softly as The Shadow unfolded a report from Harry Vincent. This was a detailed account of the evening’s events at Barton Schofield’s. In it, Harry Vincent had inserted the statement that Westley Hartnett had expressed dislike for a guest at Maxine Schofield’s party.

Hugo Urvin was the fellow’s name. A chance clew, but one which The Shadow had put to immediate use. Another report unfolded. This was from a second secret agent of The Shadow, a newspaper reporter named Clyde Burke.

Independent of the word which he had received from Harry Vincent, The Shadow had sent Clyde Burke to the Union Club. As a representative of the New York Classic, Burke had talked with club attendants regarding Blaine Goodall.

The reporter had learned that the corporation president was in the lounge room during the evening.

Goodall had been waiting for his friend Beecham. He had seemed in good spirits; in fact, he had been seen chatting with another club member. Casually, Burke had learned the name of Goodall’s temporary companion.

Hugo Urvin!

That young man had come to the Union Club after his early departure from Barton Schofield’s mansion.

This was one who might well be the secret representative of Kwa.

No detail escaped The Shadow’s keen consideration. The envelope which he, as Lamont Cranston, had plucked from the floor at the Union Club was a significant point in solving the present situation.

Hugo Urvin had talked with Blaine Goodall, and had learned the man’s plans. That must have occurred between half past ten and half past eleven. Within that short period, a gang of Chinese slayers had been sent forward in two cars to intercept Goodall on his trip to Trenton.

The inference? To The Shadow there could be but one. Hugo Urvin had established quick contact with Kwa.

With further crime impending, new contact would be necessary. The Shadow, by many lesser clews, had gained the one he wanted. Through Hugo Urvin, he could find the way to the secret abode of the Living Joss!

ONCE again, The Shadow studied the list of names which he had written. Three remained of the five who had met at Barton Schofield’s. The weary old banker; the largemouthed stock manipulator; the suave physician.

One, Barton Schofield, was opposed by the other two. At the same time, David Moultrie and Ward Zelka, while they had united through circumstance, might each be engaged in individual activity.

Briefly, The Shadow wrote instructions, and sealed each order in a separate envelope. One to Clyde Burke, to keep watch on David Moultrie. The other to Harry Vincent, whose duty would be to observe Doctor Ward Zelka.

Barton Schofield remained to The Shadow. The old banker, with Hartnett and Goodall gone, was no longer associated with conservative men; yet The Shadow held no worry for Schofield’s present safety.

Kwa had been at the banker’s home last night; but Kwa had been watching Westley Hartnett, whose life was even then in the balance. Nothing had happened to Barton Schofield. Nothing would happen, until Kwa’s reporting agent had again delivered information or received instructions.

The present situation involved two personalities. Kwa, the Living Joss, was one. Barton Schofield, the retired banker, was the other. The link between was probably Hugo Urvin. There, at the weak point, The Shadow would strike first.

The light clicked out above the polished table. The room became a mass of solid blackness. This was The Shadow’s sanctum, the uncanny abode which only the master frequented. A laugh rippled through the stillness. Its wavering echoes came back in whispered merriment.

The Shadow was gone. He had departed from this room where darkness reigned. His new quest had begun. He was seeking the direct route to Kwa, the Living Joss!

The Shadow’s clews were many; among them, the one of Hugo Urvin was the only link which The Shadow needed!