“Think it over,” urged Zelka, shaking hands with old Barton Schofield. It was impossible to tell whether his remark was made to the lawyer or to the retired banker.
Following Zelka’s example, David Moultrie shook hands all around. The two men left the room. Blaine Goodall remarked that he must be leaving, also. Westley Hartnett summoned a servant; old Barton Schofield arose wearily and started upstairs, leaning upon the attendant. The old banker always retired early in the evening.
ONE window shade gave a feeble flutter as the sash beyond it was silently lowered. Outside the house, a phantom figure moved strangely through the darkness. It traveled swiftly across the blackened lawn, and reached a coupe that was parked on a secluded lane beside Barton Schofield’s Long Island mansion.
Another coupe shot by the entrance of the lane. David Moultrie and Doctor Ward Zelka were departing in the former’s car. Zelka had come here by taxi; Moultrie was taking him back to the city.
The hidden coupe moved. It swung into the road, and its dim lights glimmered. Far behind, it took up the trail of the distant tail light which indicated Moultrie’s car.
A laugh sounded in the darkness of the following automobile. A sinister sound, that mirth caused a hollow echo within the confines of the coupe.
The Shadow, unseen, unknown, had listened well tonight. He had heard the schemes of two conniving men; and he had also heard the answer which had blocked their plans.
The Shadow knew!
CHAPTER III. THE AFTERMATH
DOCTOR WARD ZELKA and David Moultrie were seated in a little booth at the side of Brindle’s restaurant. Over sandwiches and coffee, these thwarted stock manipulators were discussing the events at the home of Barton Schofield. They had chosen Brindle’s as their Broadway rendezvous, because each booth seemed to draw its occupants apart from the world.
Thus, as they talked, both men were sure that they could not be heard. In this, however, they were wrong. Had they looked into the next booth, they would have seen a man who was listening to every word they said.
A calm-faced gentleman in evening dress was alone in that booth. He had entered wearing an overcoat, and carrying a small bag, which he had deposited beside him when he removed his coat.
The bag lay between this man and the wall. From it, deft fingers had drawn a small microphone — a miniature device which he had thrust through a crevice between the seat and the wall. He had attached a small, clamped earphone to the side of his head that was also toward the wall.
The microphone, wedged into the range of the next booth, was picking up the conversation. With food before him, the calm-faced man was listening in, thanks to the equipment in the bag beside him.
Who was this visitor to Brindle’s? No one knew. His quiet entrance had attracted no attention. Yet there were silk-hat racketeers in that Broadway restaurant who would have trembled, had they known the true identity of this obscure and solitary diner.
The calm face of the visitor was masklike. Its expression was cold and inscrutable. Steady eyes gleamed from either side of a hawkish nose. Even close inspection could not have revealed this inflexible countenance as an assumed visage, overlaid to hide the true face beneath it.
The chance diner was The Shadow. The master, whose mighty presence was a threat to all gangdom, had followed Zelka and Moultrie to this restaurant. Here, with the aid of a mechanical detector, he was listening to the aftermath of the conference at Barton Schofield’s.
“I MADE a bull,” David Moultrie was saying. “I should have left Barton Schofield out of the picture.”
“You could hardly have done so,” came Zelka’s quiet response. “You had to talk to Goodall, to keep him quiet. Goodall was almost sure to speak to Schofield.”
“Goodall has no foolish scruples,” reminded Moultrie. “He might have kept his mouth shut.”
“Goodall is a waverer,” asserted Zelka. “He fluctuates between honesty and crookedness. Such men are troublesome. Ethical conduct is something which one must either retain fully, or else disregard entirely.”
“Which puts us out of luck. There’s no chance of getting Barton Schofield with us now.”
“I am not so sure of that.” Zelka was speaking in a thoughtful tone. “I left the field open for new negotiations. Barton Schofield, himself — well, if he were younger, he would have been flat in his refusal to deal with us. But he is close to a doddering state, completely swayed by Hartnett’s opinion. That is where we have a chance.”
“With Hartnett?” Moultrie’s tone was incredulous. “Didn’t you hear him talk about integrity?”
“Bunk,” said Zelka suavely. “Listen, Moultrie. Hartnett is, unfortunately, an honest man. He is also a lawyer. I happen to know law as well as medicine.
“Few attorneys are troubled with deep consciences. They weigh all matters, and invariably make a decision in favor of the stronger point. It is just like the case in the courtroom. The district attorney fights for a verdict of guilty; the defending lawyer for acquittal. They can see no compromise — even though such a course might be the obvious way to justice.
“Who is Westley Hartnett? I shall tell you. He is an attorney hired to protect Barton Schofield’s interests, now that the old banker has retired from active life. Along with Schofield’s financial affairs is his integrity.
“Hartnett may realize that one or the other must be sacrificed. He has resolved to favor integrity. Our sudden parting, however, will make him think. He may reason as all lawyers do, that tangible affairs are in his keeping. Suppose he gets the idea that we are going to knock the bottom out of Huxley stock, just to even things up for the rebuff?”
“I see,” nodded Moultrie. “He may figure that his duty to Barton Schofield requires him to protect the value of the stock which the old man already has.”
“Exactly. If he salves his conscience, he will decide to let us go ahead. He will make sure that he can keep Barton Schofield’s name out of the deal.”
“That would be great.”
“It is purely an opinion,” remarked Zelka, as an afterthought. “It depends upon how important Huxley stock is to Barton Schofield. Hartnett may stick to his guns. If so, we are sunk. It would be foolish to ruin the value of the stock I already hold. We cannot afford to enter a suicidal combat.”
“Old Schofield is the real trouble,” snarled Moultrie. “Two weeks. Bah! If we had longer to wait, the old man might drop dead before Goodall issues his manifesto. If Schofield was out—”
“Hartnett would be handling the estate,” interposed Zelka, with an ugly smile. “If anybody ought to drop dead, it’s Hartnett. Schofield could be handled if he were forced to look after his own affairs for a while.”
“That’s right,” admitted Moultrie.
“The line-up is simple,” declared Zelka. “Westley Hartnett is the chief obstacle. If he were eliminated, that would leave—”
“Barton Schofield.”
“No. Blaine Goodall. He is a great factor. If Hartnett went out of the picture, Goodall would still have his duty to his corporation. He would have to be effectively squelched.”
“For how long?”
“Until Barton Schofield could be forced to listen to reason. There would be the ideal way to handle the situation. Eliminate Hartnett as Schofield’s attorney. Block Goodall so he could not act. Handle Schofield so that his affairs would be in our hands.”
“Excellent. But it can’t be done within two weeks.”
“Hardly. That’s why I suggest that we wait. Maybe Hartnett will change his opinion. There’s no telling what may happen. In the meantime, as far as you and I are concerned—”