The Living Joss

CHAPTER XV. THE NEXT NIGHT

AT eight o’clock the next evening, Hugo Urvin arrived at the home of Barton Schofield. He had come here for a party which had been scheduled some time previous. Maxine Schofield, when she extended invitations, invariably arranged for more than one event at a time.

Thus Urvin, when he had attended the dance two nights ago, had also known that he was coming here tonight. He had informed Kwa of both these social engagements, which had been in keeping with instructions in one of the notes.

Two nights ago, Urvin had performed no duty here, even though Westley Hartnett had been present; but this evening, Kwa’s spying henchman was acting under new instructions. His task was to watch none other than Barton Schofield.

Urvin began his operations as soon as he had entered the house. While Maxine was greeting him in the hallway, Urvin managed to glance through the door that led to the sun porch. There he saw the old banker seated in a comfortable chair, drowsily awaiting his bedtime hour.

Hugo Urvin accompanied Maxine into the dance room. From now on, it would be easy to keep tabs upon Schofield’s actions. All that Urvin awaited was the time when the old man went upstairs.

But, as he was walking with Maxine, Urvin happened to glance back into the hallway to see two strangers coming through the front door.

One was a tall young man with a long, solemn face; the other was a stocky, swarthy individual, whose countenance was grim and determined. They were not guests of Maxine’s, Urvin knew. He noted that a servant was conducting them to the sun porch.

“Who are those persons?” Urvin asked Maxine.

“Men to see grandfather,” replied the girl. “The tall one is George Cubitt. He works in Mr. Hartnett’s law office. You heard about our lawyer, didn’t you?”

“You mean Westley Hartnett?”

“Yes. It was terrible! He was killed the night before last, after he had gone home from here. Think of that! It was a terrible blow to grandfather.”

Urvin nodded. He wondered what Cubitt was doing here. He hoped that the man and his companion would not linger long.

After all, Urvin reflected, their presence would mean no complication. They would leave when Barton Schofield decided to retire. The only lingering doubt which Urvin held was that concerning the identity of George Cubitt’s companion.

Had Hugo Urvin looked in on the sun porch — an act which very sagely he did not perform — he would have learned the identity of the man who had come with Cubitt. That identity would have given Urvin real worry. The swarthy, stocky man with the firm face was none other than Detective Joe Cardona.

OUT on the sun porch, George Cubitt was introducing the sleuth to the old banker. Barton Schofield, his gray face wearied, pointed to chairs. His visitors sat down. Cardona had closed the door behind him. He motioned to Cubitt to speak.

“Mr. Schofield,” explained the young lawyer, “Detective Cardona is investigating the death of Westley Hartnett.”

“Ah!” Schofield’s tired eyes came to life. “You have taken up that good work? Poor Hartnett” — the light faded in Schofield’s face — “poor Hartnett. I hope that you can find the villain who slew him.”

“We have learned something, Mr. Schofield,” declared Cardona. “We are indebted to Mr. Cubitt here for a real clew. I want him to tell you about it.”

Schofield turned toward Cubitt. The young lawyer leaned forward in his chair.

“Mr. Schofield,” he asserted, “we have learned that Westley Hartnett, in handling your financial matters, had dealings with Blaine Goodall, the president of the Huxley Corporation.”

“Of course,” said Schofield, becoming less lethargic. “Goodall was here with Hartnett — not so many nights ago. They came to discuss Huxley stock with me.”

“Ah!” exclaimed Cubitt, turning to Cardona. “You see? I was right. This connects the two deaths.”

“The deaths?”

The question came from Barton Schofield. The old man’s eyes expressed alarm. The banker was staring from Cardona to Cubitt.

“Certainly, the deaths,” declared the detective. “Westley Hartnett was killed. Blaine Goodall was killed—”

Cardona stopped as he saw Barton Schofield slump back in his chair. The detective arose, half in alarm.

Then he saw Schofield recover his composure. The old man waved his hand to indicate that he was all right.

“Blaine Goodall — dead?” Schofield paused solemnly. “Was he, too, murdered? Why was I not told?”

“You didn’t know of it?” questioned Cardona in surprise.

Barton Schofield shook his head.

“Goodall was killed out on a New Jersey road,” said the detective. “It looked like he had run into a fight between two gangs of gunmen. Now, it looks like murder.”

“It is murder!” Schofield’s cry came suddenly, as the old man sat bolt upright. “Murder! I can tell you why!”

Cardona leaned forward to hear what the old banker had to say. Cubitt was agog. Schofield, gripped by indignation, was speaking with a vehemence which be had evidently not shown in years. Cardona’s warning had curbed the old man’s excitement to a slight degree.

“IF I only knew more!” gasped Schofield. “Ah, gentlemen, I let Hartnett manage all the details. My memory slips me. I never read the newspapers. I knew that Hartnett was dead only because this house was called and the servants told me that he had been slain. But Goodall’s death! That is news to me — and now I understand.”

“Tell us,” urged Cardona tensely.

“Something regarding Huxley stock” — Barton Schofield’s tone was bewildered — “and Hartnett had some men here! Two men, besides Goodall.

“I had intended to buy Huxley, gentlemen. These people whom Hartnett brought wanted to block it. Do you understand? My affairs interfered with theirs — and I followed Hartnett’s advice. They were angry at Hartnett — at Goodall—”

Barton Schofield suddenly threw his hands to his heart. His sudden outburst had weakened him. The old man swayed back and forth. Cubitt leaped forward to catch him before he fell. Schofield gasped and leaned back in his chair, panting. His tremor passed; he managed to smile feebly.

“I–I must take it easy,” he said wearily. “I–I am an old man. This — news — Goodall’s death—”

Cubitt was beside the old banker, ready to give him further aid. The young lawyer was speaking; Cardona stopped him with a gesture.

“Who were the two men?” he questioned quietly. “What were their names?”

“I wish that I could remember,” said Schofield, with a tired shake of his head.

“One man — one man — he had an odd sort of a face. Very distorted. Strangely” — Schofield smiled rather sheepishly — “I can recall only that his name had something about it that reminded me of birds—”

“Was it Byrd?”

“No” — Schofield was staring toward the ceiling — “more like chickens — some sort of fowl. I can’t remember names — I never could. I didn’t care who these men were. I was very tired the night that Hartnett introduced me to them.”

“The other man?” questioned Cardona.

“He was a physician,” declared Schofield, with a steady nod. “Yes, a physician. Hartnett mentioned the fact. A man who had traveled all over the world. His name was a very odd one.”

There was a pause, then Schofield’s face betrayed a haggard anxiety. He looked quickly from Cubitt to Cardona.

“Do you think I am threatened?” he questioned. “Is that why you have come here? Am I in danger? Tell me — tell me—”

“Don’t worry, Mr. Schofield,” said Cardona soberly. “We’ll get those fellows. Maybe they can tell us something about this mess. If you could only remember their names!”

“I am in danger from them?” Schofield’s talk was doddering. “Will you protect me?”

The old man was rising from his chair. He grasped the edge of the table, his clutch weakened, and he slumped back helplessly.

“Look after him,” ordered Cardona quickly.

While George Cubitt responded, the detective hastened to the door and summoned a servant. Barton Schofield was moving feebly when the attendant arrived.

“Mr. Schofield has overexerted himself,” declared the detective. “We must help him upstairs.”

The servant nodded. He and Cardona aided the old banker to his feet. Cubitt followed. They reached the head of the stairs and turned left to Schofield’s room. The old man was smiling weakly now.

“I’m better,” he declared to Cardona. “I’m sorry that I overstrained myself. Suppose — suppose that I rest quietly; then you can ask me more.”

“It is quite late, sir,” interposed the servant.

“That does not matter,” said Schofield, closing his eyes wearily. “I must concentrate. This is vitally important. Hartnett is dead — Goodall is dead—”

Cardona pondered. He could see that Barton Schofield was exhausted. The detective was a good psychologist. He knew that rest would ease the weary mind.

“It would be best for Mr. Schofield to sleep,” he decided. “There is no cause for alarm. Mr. Cubitt and I are leaving. I shall return tomorrow, and talk to you in the morning, Mr. Schofield.”

The banker muttered a reply. The servant nodded to indicate that Cardona’s decision was a wise one.

He began to help the old man remove his coat and vest. Cardona beckoned to Cubitt. The young lawyer followed him from the room.

DOWNSTAIRS, they went to the sun porch. Cardona extinguished the light. Cubitt wondered when he heard the detective fumble with the key that opened the door to the lawn. Then he felt Cardona’s grasp.

The detective led him to the hall, and called for hats and coats.

Hugo Urvin saw the pair depart. He smiled. His work was one that required caution. Barton Schofield had retired, but until these visitors were gone, Urvin would not act. He saw Cardona and Cubitt go out by the front door.

In the darkness of the veranda, the detective gripped the lawyer’s arm. His voice was tense as he spoke in a low and decided tone.

“Come,” he ordered. “Be careful.”

He conducted Cubitt toward the side of the house. Together they clambered from the veranda and moved along, close by the side of the gray mansion. They reached the door of the sun porch — the one which Cardona had unlocked. The detective opened it carefully and motioned his companion inside.

Seated in corner chairs, the two were close together as Cardona whispered the reason for his strange behavior. Cubitt felt a chill as the detective pressed a revolver into his hand.

“I didn’t want to scare the old man,” declared Cardona, “but it looks to me like he is in danger, sure enough. When you told me of Hartnett and Goodall — that was bad enough. But with Schofield in it, too—”

“You think that those two unknown men may plan to harm Schofield?”

“Why not? They bumped off Hartnett and Goodall, didn’t they? Listen. Schofield’s an old man. The easy thing would be to let him alone. But suppose they’re watching — spying here—”

“Then?”

“They’ve seen us come, haven’t they? That is, if they’re watching — inside or out? Well — do you realize what we’ve done? We may have put the old man on the spot!”

“By questioning him?”

“Sure. Any crook would know me. I didn’t realize how serious this might be when I came here. I wised up quick. When Schofield began to get scared, I figured he might be marked.”

“But if we stay here—”

“We can watch. I ought to have some men on hand, but it’s too late to fetch them now. It’s better to lay low — and if I give you the word, use that gat I handed you. Did you ever shoot one?”

“Yes. Target practice.”

“All right. Keep your nerve, then. Maybe nothing will happen tonight. I’m just playing safe. Tomorrow, I’ll detail men to cover this place. Say — when that party breaks up, I can call headquarters. I’d like to sneak around a bit now, but it’s best to lay low.”

The two men sat in darkness, Cardona cold and steady, Cubitt worried, but trying not to show it. A dance ended, and silence replaced the faint strains of music that had come to the sun porch.

IN the dance room, Hugo Urvin strolled toward the hallway. He lighted a cigarette and joined two men who were standing near the front door. Tonight’s party was a small and informal one. Less than a dozen persons were present. It was on this account that Urvin guarded his action carefully.

He waited until his companions had turned back to the dance room; then, with a nonchalant air, Urvin opened the front door and stepped out upon the veranda. He strolled to the end opposite the way which Cardona and Cubitt had so surreptitiously followed.

At the edge, Urvin paused and puffed his cigarette. He removed the half-finished stump from his mouth, and flicked it with his thumb and second finger. The cigarette shot from the veranda on a long, meteoric arc that clearly defined a glowing curve in the darkness. Sparks scattered as the cigarette struck the lawn.

Strolling back to the front door, Urvin entered unnoticed and joined the others in the dance room.

No one realized that he had been temporarily absent. Yet in that short space of time, Urvin had performed the mission demanded by Kwa.

His sparkling cigarette had been a signal to men who were crouching in the outer darkness!