The Living Joss

CHAPTER XXI. CARDONA FOLLOWS A HUNCH

DETECTIVE JOE CARDONA was pacing his office. The clock upon the wall indicated ten. The sleuth was expressing keen annoyance. A stack of papers upon his desk meant nothing but fruitless investigation.

The Chinese invasion that had resulted in the abduction of Barton Schofield had led to a blind trail.

Cardona had learned the identity of Koy Shan, but that was all. The man was a tough character of Chinatown. No one could connect him with enterprises other than his own.

Cardona, himself, had traveled to the Chinese district, but to no avail. Other detectives had reported; not one had brought in evidence.

Cardona had suspected that some insidious power might be in back of Koy Shan, but except for the words of the Chinaman who had died upon the lawn, Cardona had gained no inkling to the strange identity of Kwa.

Cardona had forgotten the delirious cry. He had forgotten, also, the remarks that Barton Schofield had made prior to his abduction. But now, with no other clews at hand, the ace detective had suddenly recalled certain statements which Schofield had made regarding Huxley stock.

Cardona scratched his head. He had been a fool to forget all this! The Chinese business had swept him entirely away from his original course. The detective thumped his fists.

“Say, Markham” — Cardona called to the detective sergeant who was in an adjoining office — “come here a minute and tell me something. Did you ever hear of a name that sounded something like chickens?”

“What kind of a name?” queried Markham, wondering if Cardona were joking.

“A man’s” said Joe.

“Shick?” asked Markham.

“Maybe,” said Cardona thoughtfully. “It doesn’t have to be like chickens, though. Let’s see. It might be fowl — no, that couldn’t be it. Ducks, geese — what do you call them all? I mean in a bunch. Wait! Maybe it’s poultry!”

“Poultry,” laughed Markham. “Never heard of a bird by that name.”

“This is serious,” growled Cardona. “Something that old Barton Schofield told me, before they grabbed him. He spoke of two men — a guy that deals in phony stock, and a doctor. The first one has a name something like poultry, maybe.”

“Moultrie!” exclaimed Markham. “David Moultrie!”

“You know of a fellow by that name?” demanded Cardona quickly. “A stock manipulator.”

“Yeah,” nodded Markham. “He isn’t a phony, though. We had some complaints a few months ago, from people who had bought shares from him. The stock had gone sour; but there wasn’t anything to keep Moultrie from selling it to suckers who wanted to buy it.”

Cardona snatched up the telephone book and searched for the name of David Moultrie. He found two addresses: an office and a residence. He pointed to the latter.

“That’s where I’m going,” he informed Markham. “Stick here, in case I want you.”

IT was just half past ten when Joe Cardona arrived at David Moultrie’s apartment house. The detective went upstairs and listened intently at the door of Moultrie’s apartment. He heard someone coming along the hall, and stood up quickly to face a man who seemed headed for this very spot.

“Mr. Moultrie?” questioned Cardona.

“Yes,” was the reply. “Sorry I’m late. I — er — er—”

Moultrie’s grin turned to a look of surprise. He had mistaken Cardona for Hugo Urvin.

The detective drew back his coat and flashed a badge. Moultrie paled.

“Going in?”

Cardona wagged his thumb toward the door as he spoke. Moultrie nodded and produced a key. He fumbled as he nervously unlocked the door.

With Cardona at his heels, the stock manipulator turned on the light in the entry. Cardona was still close by when Moultrie illuminated the living room.

“Say” — Cardona, in his challenge, wanted a pretext that would prove misleading — “who were you expecting here tonight?”

“A man named Hugo Urvin,” returned Moultrie, in a relieved tone. “He is buying stock from me. A good, reliable oil stock.”

“Is there one?” quizzed Cardona gruffly. “That doesn’t sound so good, Moultrie. When was this fellow Urvin due here?”

“He’s due now,” returned Moultrie.

“We’ll wait a while, then,” decided Cardona. “Maybe we can chat a bit while we’re waiting. So you sell good stock, eh, Moultrie?”

The man nodded.

“You buy stock, of course?”

Again Moultrie nodded.

“Say something,” growled the detective. “What kind of stock, for instance? Ever in on any really big deals?”

“Yes,” said Moultrie nervously. “Er — I should say seldom. Pardon me if I appear worried. This was an important deal tonight — this one with Urvin.”

“Half past ten,” mused Cardona. “An odd time for a business deal.”

“It is unusual,” agreed Moultrie, affecting a grin. “Urvin had to go to Hartford. I didn’t expect him until now. He set the time for this appointment.”

“What sort of a fellow is this man Urvin?” asked Cardona casually. “What’s his occupation? Is he a professional man?”

“I don’t know a thing about him,” insisted Moultrie. “He came here as a stranger, only last night. Said that he had money to invest. Say” — the man’s tone became suddenly defiant — “what’s going on, anyway? Is this a police grill?”

“May I use your telephone?” questioned Cardona quietly.

Moultrie waved his hand toward the instrument, which rested on the table. Cardona lifted the receiver, and called detective headquarters. He spoke to Markham.

“This is Cardona,” informed Joe. “Markham, I want you to look up a man named Hugo Urvin. He’s late for an appointment down here… Yes, I’m at Moultrie’s… Find out where Urvin lives, and run up there… No, don’t telephone. Go to his place, if you can locate it.”

Cardona was thumbing the pages of a telephone directory while he talked. He found Urvin’s listing, noted the name of the apartment, and gave it to Markham over the wire.

“I’m going back to headquarters,” added Cardona emphatically. “I’ll be waiting there when you return.”

THE detective hung up the receiver and looked at David Moultrie. There was something about the stock manipulator’s ugly, big-mouthed countenance that Cardona did not like.

The detective decided to play an unusual ruse; one which he had often worked before. The first step was to suddenly show his hand; the second — to give his quarry an unexpected opportunity.

“So you sell stocks, eh?” questioned Cardona. “Well, we’re interested in some funny business that’s going on in that line. Have you any customers who have been trying to buy shares of a stock called Huxley Corporation?”

“Not that I can recall,” returned Moultrie. The man was on his guard now. “There are so many stocks—”

“I know,” nodded Cardona. “Well, if you know anything about this Huxley stock, I want to find it out. If this fellow Urvin says that he is going to buy some, I’ll have some more questions to ask you. But Urvin’s not the only one—”

Cardona’s eyes were on the door to the entry. With an abrupt ending to his statement, the detective went to the door and closed it as he departed. Out of view from David Moultrie, he clicked the latch of the outer door so that he could reopen it. Cardona closed the door and crouched in the corridor beyond.

The detective was timing his actions. He had given David Moultrie something to worry about. If the stock manipulator was involved in some criminal activity, it was a sure bet that he would now behave suspiciously.

Perhaps he would sneak to the corridor; perhaps he would try to call someone by telephone. Cardona had paved the way for a call to Urvin by dispatching Markham to the other man’s apartment.

Whatever happened, Cardona was ready to pounce in at the earliest moment. The detective rested his hand upon the doorknob. He had handled cases like this before. He would give David Moultrie at least three minutes.

Three minutes! Much could happen in that space of time! Within his apartment, David Moultrie, at his table, was totally oblivious to a menace which threatened him. From the narrow space between the huge bookcase and the ceiling, long, tentacles arms were extending.

Then came the body — a rounded shape in contrast to the spiderlike arms. An evil form hung forward, ready for a tremendous spring. Its target was David Moultrie, five feet beneath. One fierce leap; this creature could crush its unsuspecting prey with one terrific swoop!

Moultrie was staring dully toward the half-opened door of the bedroom, which lay straight ahead. He fancied that the blackness there was impenetrable. It seemed to be a warning of impending danger.

Moultrie half arose from his table. At the same instant, the creature from the bookcase launched itself on a terrible leap. Simultaneously, a terrific roar issued from the darkness of the bedroom; with it came a long flash of flame.

David Moultrie cowered as he cried aloud in startled fear. The long-limbed creature that was diving forward seemed to spin sidewise in mid-air. Its spidery shape struck Moultrie on the shoulder, and staggered the frightened man; then the misshapen body plunged against the top of the table and hurtled to the floor.

The door burst open. Joe Cardona, revolver in hand, leaped into the room. The detective stopped short as he saw Moultrie cringing against the bookcase staring at the writhing, spidery creature upon the floor.

Cardona looked toward the top of the bookcase; then to the half-opened bedroom door. The heavy roar of the automatic was still echoing in his ears. The truth dawned upon the detective.

Someone — a being of amazing skill and foresight — had been awaiting this event. A steady hand had aimed at this strange creature who had been dropping down upon an unsuspecting man below.

The Shadow, unfailing in his power, had delivered death to Chun Shi, the Crafty!