“If we do not hear from Schofield,” answered Zelka calmly, “we can proceed with our purchases of Huxley stock. But it would be best to wait a while.”
“Until we see what the police do?”
“Until we see how they make out with their Chinese theories. Their investigations may end in a blind result.”
David Moultrie shifted and arose from the table. He was nodding as he went. Ward Zelka followed him with a sophisticated smile.
“We’ll leave it as is,” was Moultrie’s final statement, given in a tone of resignation.
DOCTOR WARD ZELKA lighted another cigarette after the stock manipulator had gone. He smoked in silence, then arose and strolled from the restaurant. He passed the booth in which Harry Vincent was now seated alone.
With Clyde Burke, Harry had caught snatches of the conversation between Moultrie and Zelka. They had each made notes; then Clyde had been forced to leave when Moultrie had departed. Now, in his turn, Harry took up the trail of Ward Zelka.
The physician strolled along Broadway, still puffing at his cigarette holder. He had the air of a man who intended to idle, until his eyes noted a Chinatown bus parked at Forty-seventh Street. Zelka paused to listen to the barker’s spiel. He shook his head as the man tried to inveigle him into taking the trip.
Strolling farther on, Zelka glance back over his shoulder. The lanterns on the bus seemed to suggest some thought to him. He suddenly hailed a taxicab, and ordered the driver to take him to an East Side elevated station.
When Zelka alighted, he noticed a train approaching. He hastened up the steps, dropped a nickel in the coin box, and caught the train just as it was pulling away. Five seconds later, Harry Vincent arrived on the same platform.
Was it by accident or by design that Doctor Ward Zelka had eluded the man who was following him?
Was it through chance or definite purpose that the physician happened to appear within the Chinese district less than half an hour later?
Strolling in the neighborhood of Mott and Pell, Doctor Zelka paused frequently. He was listening to snatches of Chinese lingo. Once he waited long as he heard a low voice pronounce the strange, mysterious name of Kwa.
The physician turned away from the passing throngs just as a uniformed guide appeared with a herd of sightseers in his wake. None of this crowd saw Doctor Ward Zelka; the physician had strolled away a few moments before they arrived.
Near the rear of the throng came Hugo Urvin, lounging along with the air of a bored observer. Behind him strolled a tall, impassive-featured man, whose eyes were strangely cold and unflinching.
Once more, the minion of Kwa had come to Chinatown. Again, he was followed by another visitor to this strange district. New crime was brewing. Hugo Urvin was to play his part. Above the budding plans of Kwa hovered the sinister presence of The Shadow.
His thwarting power hidden from the knowledge of the Living Joss, the master of darkness was again preparing for the next stroke of Kwa!
CHAPTER XIX. THE LATE VISITOR
IT was nearly midnight when someone rang the bell of David Moultrie’s apartment. A sleepy voice responded through the lobby telephone. The visitor announced himself as Hugo Urvin. He mentioned names of mutual acquaintances. A clicking sound at the locked door enabled Urvin to enter.
Moultrie’s apartment was a small one on the third floor. The stock manipulator, attired in pajamas and dressing gown, admitted the man who had come to see him. He waved Hugo Urvin to a chair.
The apartment consisted of an entry and a living room, with one bedroom adjoining. The living room was of ample size, with an unusually high ceiling. The first objects of furniture that Irwin noted were a table in the center of the room, and a massive bookcase near the corner by the door.
“Sorry to have aroused you,” remarked Urvin. “I was afraid I wouldn’t get you in the office tomorrow morning. I have some investments to make. I was recommended to you, Mr. Moultrie—”
“Have a cigar,” offered Moultrie, with a mouthy smile.
Hugo Urvin accepted a perfecto, and settled back in his chair.
“You have any particular stock in mind?” questioned Moultrie.
“Oil, preferably,” said Urvin. “I’m willing to take a flyer to the tune of ten thousand. But I want something that has a chance of going over big.”
Moultrie retained his smile. He sat down at the table, opened a drawer, and drew out a packet of papers. He began to work upon this customer. Men who had ten thousand to invest were not frequent.
Speculative oil! To Moultrie, that was another name for a gold brick.
Hugo Urvin puffed his cigar contentedly. The young man felt a real satisfaction. He had come here, not to invest in phony stock, but to study the lay of the apartment. He was performing the same duty which he had done at Westley Hartnett’s apartment.
A message from Kwa. A little curio with hundred-dollar bills about it. A sheet of wrapping paper which had peeled apart. A message which had disappeared in a smokeless flare. Instructions to come here and prepare the way; to return to Chinatown tomorrow, at eight o’clock.
Hugo Urvin was reviewing these matters. To him, Moultrie was another unsuspecting dupe. It never occurred to Urvin that he, himself, had been watched in his own apartment; that the message from Kwa had been read by eyes other than his own.
THE sinister presence of The Shadow had trailed Hugo Urvin as before; again, that presence had been veiled. Even now, it was close at hand — yet Urvin had no knowledge of the fact.
The door from the entry had opened by inches. Burning eyes were peering through a narrow crack. They could see Urvin as he studied the bookcase beyond Moultrie’s bowed back. The Shadow observed the smile that rested upon Urvin’s sensuous face.
“Three good propositions,” declared Moultrie, bobbing up from the table drawer. “Here they are.”
He planked a wad of stock certificates on the table, and began to remove a rubber band. Hugo Urvin stopped him with a gesture.
“You say you have three good stocks?” he questioned.
Moultrie nodded.
“That’s fine,” declared Urvin. “But how am I to choose the right one?”
“Leave that to me,” grinned Moultrie. “Oil stock, Mr. Urvin” — the manipulator was speaking the truth — “is often a gamble. Remember, I am warning you in advance. I have other stocks that are less speculative. Nevertheless, oil offers wonderful opportunities. Wonderful—”
“Suppose,” interposed Urvin, “that we get together definitely tomorrow. I deal in cash, Mr. Moultrie. I intend to draw at least ten thousand from my bank. Then I can meet you—”
“At the office.”
“I can’t make it, Mr. Moultrie. You see, I am running up to Hartford — my home city — to draw out the money from the local trust company. Could I join you here, say in the evening?”
“Ten o’clock?”
“Half past would be better.”
“Very well. You can, of course, give me a note now, if you wish to hold these securities.”
“I would prefer to wait until tomorrow night,” said Urvin, picking up his cane as he arose. “I shall have the money, then. It will give you time to pick out the best shares which I require. Please outline alternative plans, Mr. Moultrie. I may desire a choice in the matter.”
David Moultrie shook hands warmly. The entry door closed gradually. A long streak of blackness slid along the floor. That projecting blotch had stretched almost to Hugo Urvin’s chair. When Moultrie opened the door to the entry, there was no sign of a living presence.
When Hugo Urvin had gone, David Moultrie rubbed his palms and indulged in a gloating chuckle. A fly had walked into the spider’s living room. Moultrie chucked the stock certificates into the drawer. He wrote down a memorandum for tomorrow evening’s appointment.