The Living Joss

CHAPTER IX. AT THE UNION CLUB

WHILE strange episodes were taking place at Barton Schofield’s mansion, Hugo Urvin had reached the Union Club in Manhattan. The young man felt a keen satisfaction as he entered the portals of this exclusive meeting place.

His second visit to Chinatown had been made last night. There, in the Buddhist shrine, he had delivered his envelope. In return, he had received a wrapped gift from Chon Look.

The package had contained five bank notes wrapped around a souvenir tray made of brass. This time, however, the bills were of double value — one hundred dollars each. Between the peeled sheets of the wrapping paper, Urvin had discovered another message.

More money! That seemed to be the promise. For tonight, Urvin had another mission to perform in the service of Kwa. He had left Schofield’s early in the evening, in order to reach the Union Club in time.

Strolling through the lounge room, Urvin spied the man whom he sought. This was Blaine Goodall, president of the Huxley Corporation. The Union Club was the place where Goodall could most frequently be found. He lived at the club, and seldom left it except to go to his office.

Affecting a prosperous air, Urvin sat down beside Goodall and began a friendly conversation. The corporation president seemed rather annoyed; nevertheless, he joined in the chat.

Urvin, seeking to emphasize the fact that he was now well supplied with funds, began to question Goodall regarding the advantages of living at the Union Club.

“I like it here,” declared Goodall. “You would probably find it an excellent place to live.”

“Which floor are you on?” questioned Urvin, in a casual tone.

“The fifth,” asserted Goodall. “Room 550. I have never changed it since I came here. In fact, tonight will be the first time that I have been away in six months.”

“Tonight?” echoed Urvin. “You are going out of town?”

“Yes,” declared Goodall. “I expect to leave at midnight. I am driving down to Trenton.”

“Rather late,” remarked Urvin.

“I am waiting for a friend,” returned Goodall. “Conrad Beecham is going with me. He cannot get here until midnight. If he were not going along, I would start now.”

“Trenton,” observed Urvin. “You take the Lincoln Highway, as usual, I suppose?”

“No,” answered Goodall, “I prefer to cut across country. There is less traffic.”

Goodall pulled an envelope from his pocket. He traced a route upon it, then tossed the envelope toward a wastebasket. The piece of paper fluttered and fell short, dropping between the chair and the basket.

“See you later, Goodall,” remarked Urvin, rising. “Thanks for the information about the rooms.”

AFTER strolling through the lobby, Urvin quickened his pace when he reached the outer door. He glanced at his watch. It was half past ten. The young man was tempted to take a taxicab as he neared Forty-seventh and Broadway, until he noticed that a late Chinatown bus was just about to pull out.

Hurrying forward, Urvin paid the driver a half dollar, and took the last vacant seat.

Drawing a folded sheet of paper from his pocket, he began to make meaningless marks in pencil, while he observed the man beside whom he was sitting. Noting that the sightseer was interested in the bus-driver’s palaver, Urvin quickly wrote down a short report of his conversation with Blaine Goodall.

Pocketing the note, he folded it while it was out of sight, and thrust it into a tiny envelope that was loose in his pocket.

It required nearly half an hour for the bus to reach its destination. The guide started the crowd through the streets of Chinatown. Before they reached the principal corner of Mott and Pell, the man conducted his charges down the alleyway that led to the Buddhist shrine.

Chon Look saw Hugo Urvin. After the Chinaman had finished his explanation of the wishing sticks, he observed the American picked them up for examination. He also saw the envelope that Urvin laid beside them.

Briefly terminating his talk, Chon Look conducted the visitors to the door and made a sign to the girls to bring forward gift packages. One of these was given to Hugo Urvin, along with the others.

“Important,” mumbled Urvin, as he took the package from the Buddhist. “Work quickly.”

Chon Look made no response, but Urvin knew that the Chinaman had heard.

The moment that the room was clear, Chon Look hurried over to the wishing sticks, picked up the envelope, and opened the secret passage. He reached the temple, and struck the soundless gong.

The incense burners puffed. The figure of Kwa appeared upon its taboret. Chon Look extended the envelope. Kwa tore it open with his clawing nails, and read the message. A gloating chuckle crackled from his evil lips. He pressed the side of the taboret.

A minute later, a panel opened, and Soy Foon entered. Kwa had signaled for this henchman. The Living Joss handed the note to Soy Foon, and uttered words in Chinese. The merchant bowed.

Before the gesture was ended, the incense burners delivered another terrific puff. Kwa disappeared.

Chon Look and Soy Foon turned. Each left by his own passage. Chon Look returned to idle in the shrine, but Soy Foon hastened away with definite purpose.

Reaching his back room, he uttered a shrill cry. A Chinese boy appeared. Soy Foon spoke to him in English, which seemed to be the language which this American-born child understood.

“Go to find Koy Shan,” ordered Soy Foon.

The boy nodded and left.

FIVE minutes later, a rap on the door announced the arrival of the visitor. Soy Foon admitted the huge Chinaman.

“You are ready, Koy Shan?” questioned Soy Foon.

“As ready as was Chun Shi,” returned the big man.

“Chun Shi has departed,” declared Soy Foon, with a slow smile. “It is your turn, now, to do the same.”

The merchant drew closer to the huge underling, and began to babble in a singsong monotone. A gleam of understanding glistened on the scarred countenance of Koy Shan, the Mighty.

A secret cabal in the heart of Chinatown; orders from Kwa, through his henchman, Soy Foon. This, indeed, was a sinister scene, but it was more than matched by another that occurred not far away from this spot.

In the front of a blackened building on an obscure Chinatown alley, a small grating moved upward from the sidewalk. The head and shoulders of a man were thrust cautiously into view. The body followed. A figure, muffled in an overcoat and hat, stretched upward and moved hastily along the alley, the grating sliding downward as the person left.

Keeping to alleys only, the moving man managed to avoid the light except at the first crossing. There, unseen by anyone, an evil face glowed yellow. It was the same countenance that Harry Vincent had seen on Barton Schofield’s lawn. It was also the face of Kwa!

The evil visage was undergoing a change. Its fiendishness was lessening; but as it gained a more human appearance, the moving man entered another darkened alley. His rapid course led him to the street outside of Chinatown, where the huge structure of the elevated rumbled with the passing of a train overhead.

The figure was moving less swiftly as it entered a poorly lighted store that fronted on the street. The man who had been Kwa went into a dim corner where a telephone box was located on the wall. His face unseen by the store-keeper, the man dropped a coin and lifted the receiver.

The finger that dialed a number was less clawlike than before. It had lost its peculiar identity. The voice had undergone a change also. When this man spoke, his tone was disguised, but it no longer carried the familiar crackle.

Transformed to another person, this man who had been Kwa no longer bore any resemblance to the so-called Living Joss. His back — alone visible within the store — gave him the appearance of a chance New Yorker who had chosen this place at random in order to telephone.

Kwa was no longer Kwa. The demon was nonexistent. In his place was a quiet-speaking man whose low, convincing tones carried without accent into the mouthpiece of the telephone.

Yet in his present guise, Kwa was still a menace. The transformed Living Joss was paving the way for insidious crime.