THE CUP OF CONFUCIUS
by Maxwell Grant
As originally published in "The Shadow Magazine," May 1, 1937.
Out of the dim past of ancient China comes the Cup of Confucius filled to the brim with modern intrigue and murder! Only The Shadow can fathom the mystery held within its priceless jade sides!
CHAPTER I
DYNAMITE I
THE broad concrete approach leading to the New Jersey entrance of the Holland Tunnel was jammed with an orderly procession of automobiles as far as the eye could reach. Although the hour was late, the usual jam of tunnel traffic filled every lane with trucks and pleasure cars in a slow-moving, bewildering mass.
Yet there was no confusion or excitement. Lights blazing overhead gave the
scene the appearance of midday. The lines of traffic slowly converged, passed the ticket booths where busy cash registers tinkled. Cars roared down the smooth incline that led onward into the square maw of the tunnel. But in spite of the efficiency of the tunnel police, the waits were frequent. Drivers read papers or dozed, most of them bored and sleepy.
Lamont Cranston, however, was wide awake. He sat behind the wheel of his imported, beautifully streamlined coupe and his hawklike eyes were alert and intelligent. It amused him that people stared with envy at his shining car, yet
took no particular interest in him. It pleased Lamont Cranston to remain anonymous and unnoticed.
For Lamont Cranston was The Shadow, mysterious avenger of crime. The Shadow, garbed in trailing cloak and slouch hat of black, roamed the reaches of
the underworld ferreting out crime in his lair and bringing to justice those criminals who flouted the law! The name of The Shadow was a byword of terror in
the far corners of crimedom!
There was a real Lamont Cranston - a world traveler who spent most of his time exploring odd corners of the globe. Membership in New York City's exclusive Cobalt Club was his. He maintained also a palatial estate in New Jersey, but was seldom at home. Because of this, The Shadow at times adopted Cranston's personality and physical characteristics, thus being able to appear in public and gain knowledge of crime in the making that could not be his if he
passed as The Shadow.
TO-NIGHT, The Shadow in the guise of Cranston was returning from Cranston's New Jersey home. An obscure item on an inner page of the daily newspaper was responsible for The Shadow's decision. To an ordinary observer, the news item would have seemed unimportant, the routine story of a minor attempt at petty crime. The Shadow, however, sensed menace, conspiracy -
perhaps a sensational murder - behind the bare facts of that small clipping.
The Shadow uttered a grim, sibilant laugh as he sat in the midst of the stalled tunnel traffic. Again he read the item he had cut from the paper: TROUBLE AT SHADELAWN
Quick wit and quicker action prevented an attempted burglary last night at
Shadelawn, the magnificent estate of Arnold Dixon in the exclusive Pelham Bay section of New York City. An intruder, attempting to enter the window of Bruce Dixon, only son of the retired millionaire, was discovered and driven off by William Timothy with the help of Charles, the Dixon butler. Although numerous shots were fired at the fleeing crook he succeeded in escaping.
A peculiar fact in the case is that Dixon's son Bruce was unaware of the burglar's presence until he heard the shooting, although he was in his room playing solitaire when the attempt occurred. William Timothy, who is Dixon's lawyer and an old friend of the millionaire, was unable to identify the crook from police photographs; but Charles, the butler, picked out "Spud" Wilson as the man whom he and Timothy had fired at. Detectives Cohen and Maloy have been assigned to the case.
This is the second time in recent months that Shadelawn has appeared in the news. Three months ago Bruce Dixon returned home after a prolonged absence of ten years due to a violent quarrel with his millionaire father. Efforts to discover the reason for the quarrel and the recent reconciliation were fruitless. Neither Arnold Dixon nor his son would consent to an interview.
Through his lawyer Timothy, the aged millionaire declined to discuss what he termed his "personal and private affairs."
The Shadow placed the clipping back in his wallet. The cars ahead of him were beginning to move. He drove slowly past the toll booth, and a moment later
was whizzing swiftly through the electric-lighted whiteness of the tiled tunnel
that led under the mud of the Hudson River to the pulsing streets of distant Manhattan.
A single fact glowed like flame in the keen mind of The Shadow. "Spud"
Wilson, the "burglar" who had tried to enter the mansion of Arnold Dixon, was no burglar at all! He was a cleverer and more dangerous type of rogue than that. Spud was a daring confidence man, a shrewd swindler. He worked only at jobs where millions were involved.
What, then, was his purpose in sneaking into the grounds of Shadelawn?
And
why did he risk bullets and death by pretending to be a common sneak thief?
The Shadow intended to find out the true answer to his puzzle. Some one was manipulating the clever Spud for purposes far more important than the routine robbery of a millionaire's mansion.
The Shadow was hastening to his sanctum to-night. He wanted to study certain documents his agents had collected. Those documents referred not only to Arnold Dixon and his recently returned son; they concerned also William Timothy, the millionaire's lawyer and Charles, his butler.
Hidden in his sanctum in an old building in the heart of New York, its whereabouts known but to himself, The Shadow would study and ponder the significance of these accurate reports. From the knowledge thus gained he would
know before morning just what course to pursue.
The Shadow's first hint of danger came as he exited from the tunnel and drove swiftly northward along Varick Street.
An automobile was parked at the curb, and beyond the motionless car was the weedy expanse of an unfenced vacant lot. Instantly The Shadow slowed his speed, his glance rigidly alert. He was interested not in the parked car, not in the vacant lot. He was watching the face and figure of a man.
The Shadow, as Cranston, took a quick searching look at that distant figure as his coupe idled past the vacant lot and rolled onward to the corner.
The man he noticed had just emerged from the side door of a brick building that
adjoined the lot. He was hurrying stealthily across the lot toward the sidewalk
where the car was parked.
For barely an instant, his face was illuminated by the light above the doorway of the brick building. But that instant was sufficient for the keen eye
and the alert memory of The Shadow to combine in a swift guess of the fellow's probable identity.
The man was Spud Wilson! The shrewd crook who had so recently attempted to
burglarize the home of Arnold Dixon!
THE SHADOW acted without delay. His coupe shot around the corner and came to a quick halt. A moment later the car was braked and locked, and The Shadow was returning to make sure that his guess was a true one.
He crossed Varick Street and his step slackened. He managed to time himself so that he walked abreast of the suspect just as the latter emerged from the weedy lot and began to hurry toward the curb where the parked automobile had first attracted The Shadow's attention.
In the suave manner of Lamont Cranston, The Shadow, was holding an unlighted cigarette in his slim, muscular fingers. He smiled gently, said with an apologetic murmur:
"I beg your pardon, sir. I wonder if you might let me have a match?"
"Huh? Oh, sure!"
The Shadow saw to it that he was between the man and the curb. He remained