The Living Joss

CHAPTER VII. A CHANCE CALL

WESTLEY HARTNETT was seated in the living room of his apartment. The lawyer was at work upon a report which he had promised to prepare for Barton Schofield. This report concerned the condition of the Huxley Corporation.

Doctor Ward Zelka had spoken wisely when he had remarked to David Moultrie that Hartnett might reconsider his opinion. Here, on this evening, the attorney was studying the possible exigencies that might occur, should Moultrie choose to go ahead with his schemes.

Westley Hartnett had been sincere when he had spoken of Barton Schofield’s integrity. The lawyer was a man well suited to the trust which the retired banker had bestowed upon him. Nevertheless, Hartnett was doing exactly what Zelka had predicted. He was balancing integrity against financial interests.

The lawyer continued his methodical work with the papers before him. Suddenly, he smacked his fist upon the documents and seized the telephone. He dialed a number; when the reply came, he asked to speak to Barton Schofield.

The old man’s voice came over the wire. Hartnett began with an apology for his call at this late hour. It was only nine o’clock, but that was past Schofield’s usual bedtime. When the banker’s weary voice had responded to the apology, Hartnett made the statement that was on his mind.

“This Huxley case,” he declared. “There’ll be money lost if you stay out, Mr. Schofield. I’ve been worrying about it — worrying a great deal. Nevertheless, I still favor our stand. Shall we make it final?”

The lawyer listened intently. His face glowed as he received commending words from Barton Schofield.

When the call was ended, Westley Hartnett arose and stood proudly beside his desk.

He was glad that he had stood by his first decision. Let the crooked manipulator and the stock-holding physician do what they pleased. Westley Hartnett, as Schofield’s attorney, could never agree to participate in their shady dealings.

The lawyer admired Barton Schofield. The old banker could easily have acquired a million dollars as his share of the unearned profits. Moultrie and Zelka would gladly have granted him that amount. But, with integrity involved, Schofield preferred to lose the opportunity for gain.

Moreover, he was willing to sacrifice his present holdings in Huxley shares, should Moultrie, in spirit of vengefulness, knock the bottom out of the stock value.

It was final. The lawyer and his important client saw eye to eye in this important matter. Schofield’s support had completely ended all indecision on Hartnett’s part. The old man had spoken with a firmness that seemed a momentary flashback to his days of business activitiy.

THE telephone rang. Hartnett answered it. The call was from the lobby. The doorman announced that a gentleman named Hugo Urvin was calling.

A perplexed frown appeared upon the lawyer’s face. He said that the visitor could come up; but after he had hung up the receiver, Hartnett wondered why this young man had come to see him.

When Urvin appeared, the lawyer greeted him with a quizzical expression. Urvin smiled as he extended his hand. He asked if Hartnett could spare the time for a short visit.

Hartnett nodded and waved the visitor to a chair. The lawyer sat down beside the desk, where he had dropped his briefcase over the records that referred to the Huxley Corporation.

“Hope I haven’t disturbed you,” began Urvin affably. “I called your office this afternoon — but you had gone. I wanted to ask you about some legal matters. You are the one attorney whom I know among my friends.”

“We have met,” returned Hartnett. “Our meetings, however, can scarcely be termed an acquaintanceship.”

“That is true,” smiled Urvin. “We have usually seen each other at the Union Club. But the real reason why I chose to call upon you tonight was because of our meeting at the home of Barton Schofield.”

“That’s right,” recalled Hartnett. “I did meet you there.”

“At one of Maxine Schofield’s parties,” reminded Urvin. “She mentioned that you were her grandfather’s attorney.”

Hartnett recalled the incident. Maxine, twenty-year-old granddaughter of Barton Schofield, entertained frequently. Hartnett, whenever he was there, was introduced to the guests.

“I am going out there tomorrow night,” continued Urvin. “Perhaps I may meet you again.”

“Possibly,” said Hartnett. “I shall probably be there early in the evening. I was talking to Mr. Schofield over the telephone, just before you came in.”

“The purpose of my call,” declared Urvin, changing the subject, “is in regard to my own affairs. I have just passed through a period of financial difficulty, which is now ended. I have managed to readjust my income to an excellent basis.

“However, I let matters slide very badly. The result is that I am being dunned for certain bills which I have already paid. I have been gathering proof of such payment — canceled checks and letters — but I hardly know how to proceed with my self-styled creditors.

“It occurred to me that you could handle the matter for me. I would like to meet you at your office; and the whole thing has been worrying me so much that I thought this call would enable me to make an early appointment.”

“Hardly tomorrow,” mused Hartnett. “The day after, perhaps. Call the office day after tomorrow, Urvin. Will that be soon enough?”

Hugo Urvin became thoughtful. He arose restlessly from his chair and strolled over by the window, where he looked down into the gloom of a courtyard while he stroked his chin. He finally turned to the lawyer and nodded.

“Day after tomorrow,” he agreed. “Of course, I could come here late tomorrow night and leave my papers with you. After I come back from Schofield’s—”

“I shall be here,” returned Hartnett quietly. “In fact, I intend to come directly to this apartment after I leave Mr. Schofield. But I would prefer to have you call at the office the next day.”

Hugo Urvin nodded as he heard the finality of the lawyer’s tone. Then, changing his worriment to affability, he glanced about the living room.

“Nice diggings you have here,” he remarked. “Are you living all alone, Mr. Hartnett?”

“My wife is away,” explained the lawyer. “I keep no servants. She will be back within a few days; in the meantime, I go out for my meals. I am merely sleeping here — except for some evening work at the desk.”

Urvin shook hands and departed. Hartnett smiled as he sat down at his desk. He was used to troublesome clients like this one. Urvin, with his petty affairs, had seemed more worried than some big business men for whom the lawyer had handled matters of real importance.

An evening call — emphasis on the importance of an appointment — then the result would be some trifling unpaid bills that could be settled by letter with the collection attorneys.

Such cases annoyed Westley Hartnett, especially when someone whom he did not like was concerned.

The lawyer had little use for Hugo Urvin, for he knew the fellow to be a spendthrift and an idler.

OUTSIDE, Hugo Urvin was strolling up Broadway, singing to himself. He had done good work tonight.

He was sure that Westley Hartnett had not divined the real purpose of his visit. The crux had been when Urvin had gazed from the window.

As he walked along, Urvin was mumbling certain details which he had noticed. Hartnett’s window was the fifth in from the southeast corner of the courtyard. It was on the ninth floor. Six windows away, around the turn, was the end of a short hall. Moreover, a narrow ledge protruded a few feet beneath the rows of windows.

Near Forty-seventh and Broadway, Hugo Urvin sighted a Chinatown bus. He approached the barker and paid the man fifty cents. He received his ticket, and found a single seat near the rear of the big car.

There, he jotted down what he had noted at Hartnett’s. He folded his message into a tiny wad, and inserted it in an envelope smaller than a playing card.

Pulling a newspaper from his pocket, Urvin began to read by the light that came from the illuminated corner. A bustle finally told him that the bus was ready to start. Men were taking down the sign and the Chinese lanterns, to hang them on the next bus that would stop at the corner.

Hugo Urvin smiled. Soon he would be in the Buddhist shrine. There, by the wishing sticks, he would secretly drop his tiny envelope. Going out, he hoped, he would remove a wrapped gift from solemn-faced Chon Look — a gift meant for Urvin.

Urvin’s smile broadened. He could already feel the crinkle of crisp new currency. Tonight’s information was exactly what he had been sent to learn. He had every right to expect new funds for his faithfulness to Kwa!

The bus rolled down Broadway. Time seemed long to Hugo Urvin. The patter of the facetious guide, as he pointed out the sights of Manhattan, was boring to this one listener.

At last the bus reached the borders of Chinatown. The passengers alighted and were led toward the glaring lights.

Hugo Urvin, lagging at the rear of the crowd, noted Chinamen standing at the doors of their shops.

Chancing to glance along the sidewalk, he noted a peculiar silhouette that lay there. Looking upward, he observed a solemn-faced Chinaman in American clothes, who was standing near the doorway of a little store.

There was something uncanny about the fellow’s face. Urvin could not forget the peculiar hawkish countenance. Looking back over his shoulder, he still saw the Chinaman staring straight ahead. The blotch upon the grimy sidewalk seemed to have a sinister, yellowish hue.

Hugo Urvin could not forget the incident, even when the party neared the Buddhist shrine. There was a reason why the young man should be troubled. Hugo Urvin was now the accomplice of a criminal. A tool of crime, he had seen the master whose very presence was a menace to evildoers.

That sinister Chinaman was none other than The Shadow. Here, in Chinatown, the superman had adopted an Oriental disguise. He was seeking clews that would lead him to the lair of Kwa!

Yet in his quest for the Living Joss, The Shadow, master though he was, had engaged with a brain of consummate cunning. Before his very eyes, Hugo Urvin had passed as one of a group of sightseers.

Well had Kwa planned. Seeking to reach beyond the confines of the Chinese district, he had smuggled in an aid so ingeniously that even The Shadow had not, as yet, detected the artful ruse!