Honeywell's voice became apologetic. "I'm sorry, sir. I know the house you
mean. I sold it, only recently. I'm afraid the owner wouldn't consent to sell."
"Who owns it? Perhaps I can offer him a good profit on the deal."
"It's owned by a Mr. Donald Perdy. Profit wouldn't interest him, I'm afraid. He's quite wealthy. Has a photographic art studio on Fifth Avenue.
Owns
his own plane. I'm sorry, Mr. Stedman, but I assure you I have other houses equally as lovely."
"I dare say," The Shadow murmured in his disguised voice. "Perhaps I'll drop in your office some time and investigate. Good day, sir."
He hung up. His laughter eddied ominously in the sunlit room.
TWENTY minutes later, The Shadow entered the photographic studio of Donald
Perdy. He gave Lamont Cranston's card to a girl at a desk and desired to see Mr.
Perdy personally.
Lamont Cranston's wealth and social prestige brought Perdy out of his private office instantly, with a polite smile and an extended hand.
The Shadow expressed in Cranston's suave voice a desire to have his portrait taken at some later date. He was deliberate in his talk, vague about just what type of portrait he desired. All the while he talked, he was studying
this Mr. Perdy unobtrusively.
A clean-shaven man, the photographer was, with a strong, square face and high cheek bones. The cheek bones and the eyes were proof enough to The Shadow that his visit had been successful. The eyes were hard, black, rather coldly sullen, in spite of the fact that Donald Perdy was putting on a beautiful, well-bred act for the benefit of his wealthy visitor.
But The Shadow was not deceived. Mentally, he placed a brown beard on that
smooth, hard countenance. He added a rasp to the cold voice, placed mentally a gun in that muscular hand.
Donald Perdy and Paul Rodney were one and the same!
The Shadow turned, pretended to see for the first time a large photograph in one of the display cases. It was a portrait of Bruce Dixon.
"I see Arnold Dixon's son is one of your clients," he murmured. "His father is an old friend of mine."
"Really?" Perdy's eyes narrowed by the merest flick.
"Yes. He and I are both interested in the same things. He has a wonderful collection of ancient Chinese pottery. I've been to his home to see it."
Perdy had recovered his poise that had vanished momentarily at the mention
of Bruce Dixon and his father.
"Of course," he said smilingly. "I remember now. Bruce told me you had been there. As you say, his father has a most wonderful collection." He laughed
and his voice became very casual. "Too bad he hasn't the prize item of the lot.
If only he had the Cup of Confucius, eh?"
His dark eyes were like gimlets, boring into Lamont Cranston as though seeking to read the thoughts behind his visitor's mind. But The Shadow merely yawned.
He said in a bored tone: "The Cup of Confucius? I don't believe I've ever heard of it. But then, I'm merely an amateur at this collecting hobby. It sounds like a rare and very old piece."
"It is," Perdy said, his eyes still alert.
"About the photograph," The Shadow said with a shrug. "I'm sure you can arrange to take one that will please me. Suppose I call back in a week or so and arrange for a sitting. Would that be satisfactory?"
"Anything you say, Mr. Cranston," Perdy said. His grin expanded suddenly so that his teeth flashed for an instant. The teeth were small, regular, very white - almost like a woman's. The same teeth that had grinned at The Shadow when he had been attacked so savagely outside the library window of Arnold Dixon's mansion.
They shook hands again and The Shadow took his departure.
AS he walked up Fifth Avenue and hailed a bus in the morning sunshine, the
face of The Shadow was grimly taut.
He was convinced now that Donald Perdy, alias Paul Rodney, was the supercrook whose presence he had suspected since he had first read the brief newspaper item about "Trouble at Shadelawn." Perdy must be the man who had sent
that mysterious burglar "Spud Wilson" on his mission to the millionaire's home.
No one but Perdy could have blown up the unfortunate Wilson in that parked
car outside the vacant lot. Perhaps Wilson had tried to double-cross his criminal overlord. If he had, his death had been prompt and horrible. Like the savage deaths that had been handed to the two blackmailers, Snaper and Hooley.
The Shadow had long since eliminated those latter two from the case. They had been cheap crooks, blundering into something far more sinister than their demands for hush money. They had paid the price in that flaming house on the rocky cliff above Long Island Sound.
From now on, the struggle was between Perdy and The Shadow. Not only Perdy! Bruce Dixon, too! The old man's son had stolen the Cup of Confucius. He had been waylaid and deprived of it by Snaper and Hooley. The priceless cup was
now missing.
The only clue to its whereabouts was in The Shadow's possession. But Bruce's guilt was becoming clearer. Arnold Dixon's son was leagued with the sinister Perdy in an effort to recover the cup and perhaps murder his own father!
CHAPTER XIII
THE MAN IN THE GARAGE
WHILE The Shadow was riding slowly northward atop a Fifth Avenue bus, Bruce Dixon was listening intently to the hoarse, frightened voice of his father.
"I tell you, my mind is made up, Bruce," the older man said. "It's the only way! By changing my will, I can check, at one stroke, the criminal designs
of whoever is trying to kill me and get hold of my fortune."
He stopped short, his arm flung out in a nervous gesture. Then he resumed his worried pacing of the room.
"I think you're overestimating the importance of these attacks," Bruce said. His face was pale. He choked, seemed to have difficulty in speaking. "I
-
I refuse to have the will changed in my favor! There's no especial need for it,
dad."
There was no depth in his hesitant tone. Yet his father, alarmed by the events of the past few days, took no especial notice. A stroke of the pen would
make Bruce his father's sole heir, as he had been before he had left home, following the quarrel over his evil ways that had made him a wanderer for ten long years. From his words, it appeared that he did not want to be made heir.
Yet his manner, the sidelong glance of his eyes seemed to indicate otherwise.
"No especial need?" his father echoed. "How can you say that, when my home
has been invaded and the Cup of Confucius stolen!"
"True enough," Bruce admitted, with that same queer hesitancy in his speech. "I - I only wish I had been at home when it happened. Did Mr. Timothy really catch a good glimpse of the thief?"
"No such luck," Dixon groaned. "All he saw was the fellow's back as he leaped from the vine-covered wall and made his escape with the box that contained the cup."
"Surely Timothy must have seen something of the thief's face," Bruce persisted. "He's a lawyer. He's accustomed to using his eyes and his ears. It seems strange he could get no - no description of the thief."
"Not so strange," Arnold Dixon said, hollowly. "The night was dark. The fellow ran like a deer. Timothy thinks he must have been a young man. No older man could have escaped with such uncanny speed."
"It might have been Snaper, or perhaps Hooley."
"Nonsense! Both those rogues were too old. Besides, they had no idea that I possessed the Cup of Confucius. All they're interested in is blackmail. I've already told you the reason for their visits twice a month."
"So you did," Bruce replied, evenly. "I wonder what's become of them.
Have
you heard anything further since they tried to torture you in that shack over near the Sound?"