The Living Joss

CHAPTER III. THE AFTERMATH

DOCTOR WARD ZELKA and David Moultrie were seated in a little booth at the side of Brindle’s restaurant. Over sandwiches and coffee, these thwarted stock manipulators were discussing the events at the home of Barton Schofield. They had chosen Brindle’s as their Broadway rendezvous, because each booth seemed to draw its occupants apart from the world.

Thus, as they talked, both men were sure that they could not be heard. In this, however, they were wrong. Had they looked into the next booth, they would have seen a man who was listening to every word they said.

A calm-faced gentleman in evening dress was alone in that booth. He had entered wearing an overcoat, and carrying a small bag, which he had deposited beside him when he removed his coat.

The bag lay between this man and the wall. From it, deft fingers had drawn a small microphone — a miniature device which he had thrust through a crevice between the seat and the wall. He had attached a small, clamped earphone to the side of his head that was also toward the wall.

The microphone, wedged into the range of the next booth, was picking up the conversation. With food before him, the calm-faced man was listening in, thanks to the equipment in the bag beside him.

Who was this visitor to Brindle’s? No one knew. His quiet entrance had attracted no attention. Yet there were silk-hat racketeers in that Broadway restaurant who would have trembled, had they known the true identity of this obscure and solitary diner.

The calm face of the visitor was masklike. Its expression was cold and inscrutable. Steady eyes gleamed from either side of a hawkish nose. Even close inspection could not have revealed this inflexible countenance as an assumed visage, overlaid to hide the true face beneath it.

The chance diner was The Shadow. The master, whose mighty presence was a threat to all gangdom, had followed Zelka and Moultrie to this restaurant. Here, with the aid of a mechanical detector, he was listening to the aftermath of the conference at Barton Schofield’s.

“I MADE a bull,” David Moultrie was saying. “I should have left Barton Schofield out of the picture.”

“You could hardly have done so,” came Zelka’s quiet response. “You had to talk to Goodall, to keep him quiet. Goodall was almost sure to speak to Schofield.”

“Goodall has no foolish scruples,” reminded Moultrie. “He might have kept his mouth shut.”

“Goodall is a waverer,” asserted Zelka. “He fluctuates between honesty and crookedness. Such men are troublesome. Ethical conduct is something which one must either retain fully, or else disregard entirely.”

“Which puts us out of luck. There’s no chance of getting Barton Schofield with us now.”

“I am not so sure of that.” Zelka was speaking in a thoughtful tone. “I left the field open for new negotiations. Barton Schofield, himself — well, if he were younger, he would have been flat in his refusal to deal with us. But he is close to a doddering state, completely swayed by Hartnett’s opinion. That is where we have a chance.”

“With Hartnett?” Moultrie’s tone was incredulous. “Didn’t you hear him talk about integrity?”

“Bunk,” said Zelka suavely. “Listen, Moultrie. Hartnett is, unfortunately, an honest man. He is also a lawyer. I happen to know law as well as medicine.

“Few attorneys are troubled with deep consciences. They weigh all matters, and invariably make a decision in favor of the stronger point. It is just like the case in the courtroom. The district attorney fights for a verdict of guilty; the defending lawyer for acquittal. They can see no compromise — even though such a course might be the obvious way to justice.

“Who is Westley Hartnett? I shall tell you. He is an attorney hired to protect Barton Schofield’s interests, now that the old banker has retired from active life. Along with Schofield’s financial affairs is his integrity.

“Hartnett may realize that one or the other must be sacrificed. He has resolved to favor integrity. Our sudden parting, however, will make him think. He may reason as all lawyers do, that tangible affairs are in his keeping. Suppose he gets the idea that we are going to knock the bottom out of Huxley stock, just to even things up for the rebuff?”

“I see,” nodded Moultrie. “He may figure that his duty to Barton Schofield requires him to protect the value of the stock which the old man already has.”

“Exactly. If he salves his conscience, he will decide to let us go ahead. He will make sure that he can keep Barton Schofield’s name out of the deal.”

“That would be great.”

“It is purely an opinion,” remarked Zelka, as an afterthought. “It depends upon how important Huxley stock is to Barton Schofield. Hartnett may stick to his guns. If so, we are sunk. It would be foolish to ruin the value of the stock I already hold. We cannot afford to enter a suicidal combat.”

“Old Schofield is the real trouble,” snarled Moultrie. “Two weeks. Bah! If we had longer to wait, the old man might drop dead before Goodall issues his manifesto. If Schofield was out—”

“Hartnett would be handling the estate,” interposed Zelka, with an ugly smile. “If anybody ought to drop dead, it’s Hartnett. Schofield could be handled if he were forced to look after his own affairs for a while.”

“That’s right,” admitted Moultrie.

“The line-up is simple,” declared Zelka. “Westley Hartnett is the chief obstacle. If he were eliminated, that would leave—”

“Barton Schofield.”

“No. Blaine Goodall. He is a great factor. If Hartnett went out of the picture, Goodall would still have his duty to his corporation. He would have to be effectively squelched.”

“For how long?”

“Until Barton Schofield could be forced to listen to reason. There would be the ideal way to handle the situation. Eliminate Hartnett as Schofield’s attorney. Block Goodall so he could not act. Handle Schofield so that his affairs would be in our hands.”

“Excellent. But it can’t be done within two weeks.”

“Hardly. That’s why I suggest that we wait. Maybe Hartnett will change his opinion. There’s no telling what may happen. In the meantime, as far as you and I are concerned—”

Doctor Zelka paused to puff upon his cigarette. David Moultrie watched the expression upon the sallow face. He could see that his companion was considering every possibility.

“YOU and I,” resumed Zelka thoughtfully, “we must keep apart. Attend to your stock deals — and be very discreet. I shall indulge in a quiet existence about New York.”

“Because of Hartnett?”

“Yes — and because of the others. Hartnett looked into our affairs. He may intend to investigate us further. People may be watching us; and if we appear to have no more than a passing acquaintanceship, it may prove of value.

“I” — Zelka tapped his chest with his forefinger — “simply happen to be a large holder of Huxley stock. You came to me as a stranger. I accepted your proposal, and approved your plan. There is no reason why I should see you again, unless new conference is called.”

“Right,” agreed Moultrie. “That will have an effect on Hartnett — on the others, too — if they get any report on our affairs. You thought my proposition was good. Why shouldn’t old Barton Schofield grab it?”

Doctor Zelka smiled in recollection of the evening session which they had held at Schofield’s. He was thinking of the personal remarks which Westley Hartnett had uttered.

“I have traveled much,” he remarked. “I have been many places, Moultrie, and I have always had a penchant for the unusual. It interested me when Hartnett began to drag up my past. Whatever he may have learned concerning me cannot be more than a fraction of the actual truth.”

“You landed in trouble often?”

“Very often. But I have a way about me, Moultrie. I can always avoid difficulties. I enjoy intrigue; and I have engaged in it. But when it is necessary, I can generally manage to straighten my affairs.

“There were occasions when I encountered unexpected situations, and found it easier and more comfortable to stage a prompt departure than to stay around and face more trouble. Those are the cases of which Hartnett probably learned.”

“They may have influenced him considerably,” mused Moultrie. “He seemed to attach much significance to them.”

“That was merely an excuse,” asserted Zelka. “You saw how mildly I took his statements. Nevertheless, I have not forgotten them. I am something of an Oriental, Moultrie. I always liked to mingle with the natives of the East, to study their ways, and to speak their language.

“I seldom forget an insult, and I usually find ways of retaliation — particularly ways that prove beneficial to myself. Some day, Westley Hartnett will regret what he said tonight.”

A strange expression appeared upon Ward Zelka’s face. The physician evidently meant what he had said. To David Moultrie, however, this was a matter of minor consequence. The stock manipulator was still trying to think of some way to nullify tonight’s failure.

He shrugged his shoulders as he slid from the side of the booth and reached the center floor of the restaurant. He reached out to shake hands with Ward Zelka.

“Good night,” was Moultrie’s parting. “Let’s hope you’re right — that something will intervene to change this situation. I doubt, however, that Hartnett will alter his opinion. We can only hope for it.”

“And await developments,” smiled Zelka.

WHEN David Moultrie had gone, the physician remained until he had finished his cigarette. Then he left the restaurant, and strolled down Broadway.

Shortly after Ward Zelka’s departure, the man in the next booth closed his suitcase and donned his overcoat. He, too, departed from Brindle’s, and followed Broadway until he reached a side street. There, he entered a parked coupe.

It was an hour later when Ward Zelka entered the small lobby of the uptown apartment house where he lived. The physician looked in his mail box; then unlocked the front door and entered. He did not notice anything unusual in the gloomy confines of the lobby.

But when the physician had gone, something occurred upon the very spot which he had left. A blotch upon the tiled floor came into sudden motion. A tall shape seemed to grow from the very wall.

A whispered laugh brought weird echoes to that gloomy vestibule. The outer door opened; the mysterious figure was gone. The Shadow’s investigation was ended for the night.

He — The Shadow — had heard the aftermath between Zelka and Moultrie. He knew the thoughts that were in the brains of the schemers.

Chinatown — Long Island — uptown Manhattan. Were these connected with crime that might follow thwarted schemes? If crime were looming, The Shadow would know!