The Living Joss

CHAPTER VIII. THE YELLOW FACE

WESTLEY HARTNETT and Barton Schofield were seated on the sun porch of the old banker’s home.

The strains of music came through the half-opened door that led into the main portion of the house.

“Maxine enjoys these parties that she gives,” remarked Hartnett. “Doesn’t the noise ever disturb you after you have gone to bed?”

“Seldom,” responded Schofield, with his weary tone. “My room is isolated upstairs. I am entirely alone, and the room is almost soundproof.”

The mention of the old man’s habit of retiring early seemed to have an immediate effect. Barton Schofield arose from his chair, and started weakly toward the door.

“It is after nine o’clock,” he said. “I am going to bed. Good night, Hartnett.”

The lawyer helped his client through the door. A servant came forward and assisted Barton Schofield in his labored progress toward the staircase. Westley Hartnett strolled into a large room where a dance had just ended.

Maxine Schofield spied the attorney. She came over to greet him with a smile. Clasping Hartnett’s hand, she drew him toward a corner where a young man was standing.

“I want you to meet Mr. Vincent,” said the girl. “He is a new friend of mine. I met him through Lamont Cranston.”

Hartnett raised his eyebrows as he heard these words. Lamont Cranston, globe-trotting millionaire, was a man highly recognized by New York society; and any friend of his would be quickly invited and welcomed to an affair of this sort.

Westley Hartnett shook hands with a clean-cut young chap, and began a conversation. The lawyer usually took little interest in the young men who came to Maxine Schofield’s parties, but Harry Vincent impressed him as one of a highly intelligent type.

“You are a friend of Lamont Cranston?” questioned the lawyer.

“Yes,” replied the young man. “In fact, we were lunching together at the Ritz when he introduced me to Miss Schofield.”

“Quite a character,” remarked Hartnett. “Cranston is a most unusual man. He travels everywhere — coming and going as he chooses. In fact, I thought that he was abroad at present. The last I heard, he had set out to hunt elephants in Africa.”

“I have known Cranston for a long while,” returned Harry. “He has a way of talking about his travels that completely disregards the time element. He told me one story about Tibet that might have happened a month ago, or thirty years ago. He did not specify.”

“I have met Cranston at the Cobalt Club,” nodded Hartnett. “I have heard him tell of his travels, and have noted the very peculiarity of which you speak.”

The two men were strolling away from the large room as they talked. Hartnett, interested in the conversation, did not realize that his companion was urging him to another spot.

Suddenly finding that they had left the range of the dancers, Hartnett suggested that they occupy the sun porch, and enjoy a smoke. Harry agreed.

The middle-aged lawyer and his young friend became involved in various discussions as they puffed at their perfectos in the seclusion of the porch. Time drifted rapidly, and Hartnett continued to enjoy the new companionship.

He wondered why Harry Vincent, a man who seemed practical-minded, had bothered to come to so trivial a function as the party which was now in progress.

Westley Hartnett would have been amazed had he known the answer. Harry Vincent was here for one special purpose. That was to watch Westley Hartnett.

HARRY VINCENT was an agent of that remarkable personage known as The Shadow. He had been introduced to Maxine Schofield, so that he could act as secret protector to either the lawyer or the old banker.

In a sense, Harry’s duty was thus a double one, but he had been instructed to concentrate upon Hartnett unless some event should render Schofield more important.

Harry’s introduction to Maxine Schofield had been well contrived. The personality of Lamont Cranston, globe-trotting millionaire, who kept a permanent home in New Jersey, was one which The Shadow himself frequently adopted. Thus, The Shadow, as Cranston, had invited Harry to lunch at the Ritz — where Maxine Schofield always had her noontime meal.

Yet Harry, himself, did not know that it was his mysterious chief who had carried through the actual introduction. He knew that there must be some connection between Cranston and The Shadow, but he had accepted the famous millionaire purely as another confidential agent — not as The Shadow himself.

Tonight, Harry intended to remain at this mansion until Westley Hartnett made his departure. Then he was to follow the lawyer, unless something should command him to remain. The Shadow had placed reliance in Harry Vincent’s judgment.

The talk turned to legal matters. Smoothly, Harry gained Hartnett’s interest so effectively that the lawyer expressed a desire to meet him frequently. This was important progress for Harry Vincent. It meant that he would be able to keep close watch from now on.

“Stop in and see me,” urged Hartnett. “Any time — at the office or the apartment. I’m batching it while my wife is away. There’s plenty of room if you want to stay overnight. Frankly” — Hartnett smiled as he puffed his cigar — “it is unusual to meet someone of your intelligence at one of these parties. I am a man with few friends; and I like to further worthwhile acquaintances.

“Now, there” — Hartnett pointed through the door toward a young man who was donning his hat and coat, about to leave — “is one whom I distinctly do not like. He is typical of the idling, worthless class of social parasites.”

Hugo Urvin was the one whom the lawyer indicated. Maxine Schofield was saying good night to the parting guest. Turning, the girl observed the pair upon the sun porch.

“I wondered what became of you,” exclaimed Maxine. “I don’t mind Mr. Hartnett running away, because he doesn’t like to dance. But I can’t excuse you, Mr. Vincent. Come alone — you will have this dance with me.”

Harry nodded to Hartnett and went with the girl to join the other guests. At the end of the dance, he managed to return to the sun porch. As he neared the open door, he noted Hartnett drowsily holding his cigar. Then Harry stopped suddenly.

BEYOND the lawyer, peering through the pane of an unshaded window, was the most hideous face that Harry Vincent had ever seen. Glaring, gloating, with bulging eyes and extended teeth, it was the countenance of a terrible fiend.

A face of evil, it hung there like an insidious menace, a mass of grotesque yellow that seemed too horrible to be a human visage!

Harry Vincent waited, making no move to betray his arrival. While he watched, the face melted away as it withdrew into the outer darkness. Then Harry walked boldly into the sun porch. His appearance aroused Hartnett from his reverie.

“Hello, Vincent,” said the lawyer. “I was half asleep. Think I’ll have to be running into the city. Finish the cigar first, I guess. Sit down; sit down.”

“I’ll be back,” remarked Harry. “I have a telephone call to make. I’ll see you before you leave, Mr. Hartnett.”

Harry found the telephone beside an obscure hall closet. He called a number, and a low voice responded.

“Burbank speaking.”

It was the voice of The Shadow’s secret contact man. Burbank was always available to active agents such as Harry. Burbank, alone, held direct communication with The Shadow.

“Someone watching Hartnett,” informed Harry, as he glanced about to make sure that no listeners were close by. “Yellow face — like a Chinaman — through the sun-porch window.”

“Stand by for return call.”

Harry hung up the receiver and waited. Several minutes went by. The bell began to ring, and Harry pounced upon the receiver so quickly that he was sure no one else could have heard the call.

“Vincent speaking,” he informed.

“Burbank,” came the quiet reply. “Hold Hartnett. Watch for the yellow face. Trace it if possible.”

Harry hung up. He knew what this meant. The Shadow would be here with all possible speed. By keeping Hartnett for a while, all would be well.

But when Harry reached the sun porch, he found that the lawyer was no longer there. During the interim of Harry’s absence, Hartnett had evidently decided to start into the city.

HURRYING past the dance room, Harry reached the front door and stepped out onto a veranda. There was a long walk to a curving drive; at the end, Harry saw a coupe just about to pull away.

Hartnett’s car!

Orders were to hold Hartnett; that could not be done now. The only course was to follow the lawyer into the city.

Harry’s own coupe was out in the same drive. But as the young man watched the moving vehicle, his eyes suddenly noticed a bush that was just within the glare of Hartnett’s headlights.

Crouched behind the clump of shrubbery, discernible by Harry, but concealed from Hartnett’s view, was a grotesque figure that was watching the departure of the lawyer. As the rays of light revealed the ugly shape, Harry saw the same face that he had observed at the sun-porch window.

A gruesome, yellow countenance was directing its fiendish gaze toward the moving car. Slowly rising, the gloating figure turned its head to stare at the driver of the coupe.

The car shot ahead; the lights were gone; but in a dull glow that stretched from the illuminated windows of Barton Schofield’s mansion, Harry could still see the outline of the insidious creature.

Silently, Harry watched. This was a dilemma. He had two duties now; to watch Hartnett; to spy upon this nocturnal visitor. Had he not seen the huddled figure, Harry would have traveled in the lawyer’s wake.

Now, with what appeared to be an insidious enemy still in view, Harry decided to remain. He must be here to guide The Shadow. Westley Hartnett? Harry Vincent felt qualms; then decided that the lawyer would surely be safe. Hartnett had gone; but the menacing creature had not. Danger, Harry felt, was here.

He thought of Barton Schofield, and kept close vigil on the bush where the figure still crouched. If the creature started toward the house, a warning might prove necessary. Minutes passed while Harry watched. Fifteen; twenty.

Straining his eyes, Harry suddenly detected that the monster was in motion. The figure became a long shape that sprang in apelike fashion as it left the bush. Bounding across the lawn, skirting the side of the house, it disappeared in blackness.

Was this the time for action? Harry hesitated. He waited a few minutes more, hoping that the creature might reappear. Then, in alarm, he turned to enter the house. Something gripped his arm; Harry repressed a startled gasp as he turned to face two glowing eyes that shone from the darkness which enshrouded this veranda.

The Shadow!

SELDOM did Harry meet his mysterious master. This incident was a flashback to the night when Harry had entered The Shadow’s service. Then, a black figure had emerged from darkness to grip Harry just as the young man was about to take a suicidal leap from a bridge.

A deluge of memories swept through Harry’s excited mind; they ended when he heard a single word uttered — a command which came in the sinister whisper of The Shadow.

“Report!”

In a hushed tone, Harry quickly told what he had seen. The Shadow answered in another single word:

“Remain!”

With that, the black-garbed phantom was gone. So swift and silent was the departure, that Harry could not imagine what direction The Shadow had taken.

It was several minutes before Harry Vincent again felt the firm grasp upon his arm. This time, without turning, he heard the whispered instructions of The Shadow.

“Your hat. Your coat. Drive your car to the lane beyond the lawn. Park without lights, beneath a tree.”

Again, the figure of The Shadow faded away. Harry went back into the house, obtained his hat and coat, and told the servant to inform Miss Schofield that he had been forced to leave to keep an unexpected appointment.

He hurried to his coupe, and drove to the appointed spot. Hardly had he parked his car and extinguished the lights before the door of the coupe had opened, and a firm hand was drawing him from the car.

Reaching the fringe of the lawn, Harry heard the voice of The Shadow close beside his ear. The master of darkness was pointing out a special window that showed plainly against the gray stone of the house — a blackened spot that Harry quickly distinguished.

“Barton Schofield’s room,” carried The Shadow’s uncanny whisper. “I was there. All is well at present. The window is the only way of entrance. The door beyond is locked. Keep watch for any intruder. Act if necessary.”

The words ended almost in a tone of mockery. Strange, whispered echoes remained in Harry’s ear.

Before the sibilant sounds had faded, The Shadow was gone.

A car pulled away from a spot farther up the lane. Harry knew the meaning. The Shadow had departed on some mission. Perhaps he was going to cover Westley Hartnett while Harry remained on guard here.

Minutes went by; still Harry watched. No sign occurred. Between the time when Harry had last seen it, and the moment when The Shadow had arrived, that evil creature with the yellow face had made a quick and untraceable departure.

The Shadow, now, was gone. Harry Vincent remained upon his lonely vigil.

Yellow face! What menace did it carry? Was it the countenance of some superfiend that threatened the lives of helpless men?

Harry sensed that the demonish being might still be here, ready to attack a weary old man, asleep in an upstairs room of the mansion.

He, Harry Vincent, was the only person who could protect Barton Schofield from the threat, should it appear again. That window would be easily accessible to the springing, apish figure that Harry had seen upon the lawn.

Keyed to the importance of his duty, Harry Vincent waited, his hand upon the cold steel of an automatic which rested in the pocket of his overcoat.

One car had driven from the drive, just after the departure of The Shadow. Another left; other guests departed a few minutes later. Harry Vincent remained on watch.