Doctor Zelka paused to puff upon his cigarette. David Moultrie watched the expression upon the sallow face. He could see that his companion was considering every possibility.
“YOU and I,” resumed Zelka thoughtfully, “we must keep apart. Attend to your stock deals — and be very discreet. I shall indulge in a quiet existence about New York.”
“Because of Hartnett?”
“Yes — and because of the others. Hartnett looked into our affairs. He may intend to investigate us further. People may be watching us; and if we appear to have no more than a passing acquaintanceship, it may prove of value.
“I” — Zelka tapped his chest with his forefinger — “simply happen to be a large holder of Huxley stock. You came to me as a stranger. I accepted your proposal, and approved your plan. There is no reason why I should see you again, unless new conference is called.”
“Right,” agreed Moultrie. “That will have an effect on Hartnett — on the others, too — if they get any report on our affairs. You thought my proposition was good. Why shouldn’t old Barton Schofield grab it?”
Doctor Zelka smiled in recollection of the evening session which they had held at Schofield’s. He was thinking of the personal remarks which Westley Hartnett had uttered.
“I have traveled much,” he remarked. “I have been many places, Moultrie, and I have always had a penchant for the unusual. It interested me when Hartnett began to drag up my past. Whatever he may have learned concerning me cannot be more than a fraction of the actual truth.”
“You landed in trouble often?”
“Very often. But I have a way about me, Moultrie. I can always avoid difficulties. I enjoy intrigue; and I have engaged in it. But when it is necessary, I can generally manage to straighten my affairs.
“There were occasions when I encountered unexpected situations, and found it easier and more comfortable to stage a prompt departure than to stay around and face more trouble. Those are the cases of which Hartnett probably learned.”
“They may have influenced him considerably,” mused Moultrie. “He seemed to attach much significance to them.”
“That was merely an excuse,” asserted Zelka. “You saw how mildly I took his statements. Nevertheless, I have not forgotten them. I am something of an Oriental, Moultrie. I always liked to mingle with the natives of the East, to study their ways, and to speak their language.
“I seldom forget an insult, and I usually find ways of retaliation — particularly ways that prove beneficial to myself. Some day, Westley Hartnett will regret what he said tonight.”
A strange expression appeared upon Ward Zelka’s face. The physician evidently meant what he had said. To David Moultrie, however, this was a matter of minor consequence. The stock manipulator was still trying to think of some way to nullify tonight’s failure.
He shrugged his shoulders as he slid from the side of the booth and reached the center floor of the restaurant. He reached out to shake hands with Ward Zelka.
“Good night,” was Moultrie’s parting. “Let’s hope you’re right — that something will intervene to change this situation. I doubt, however, that Hartnett will alter his opinion. We can only hope for it.”
“And await developments,” smiled Zelka.
WHEN David Moultrie had gone, the physician remained until he had finished his cigarette. Then he left the restaurant, and strolled down Broadway.
Shortly after Ward Zelka’s departure, the man in the next booth closed his suitcase and donned his overcoat. He, too, departed from Brindle’s, and followed Broadway until he reached a side street. There, he entered a parked coupe.
It was an hour later when Ward Zelka entered the small lobby of the uptown apartment house where he lived. The physician looked in his mail box; then unlocked the front door and entered. He did not notice anything unusual in the gloomy confines of the lobby.
But when the physician had gone, something occurred upon the very spot which he had left. A blotch upon the tiled floor came into sudden motion. A tall shape seemed to grow from the very wall.
A whispered laugh brought weird echoes to that gloomy vestibule. The outer door opened; the mysterious figure was gone. The Shadow’s investigation was ended for the night.
He — The Shadow — had heard the aftermath between Zelka and Moultrie. He knew the thoughts that were in the brains of the schemers.
Chinatown — Long Island — uptown Manhattan. Were these connected with crime that might follow thwarted schemes? If crime were looming, The Shadow would know!
CHAPTER IV. A STRANGE SUMMONS
THE following evening, Doctor Ward Zelka left his apartment house and strolled along the street toward the nearest avenue. This side street was lined with apartment buildings, and, near the entrance of one, Zelka sauntered past a young man who was about to enter.
The physician merely glanced at the stranger. He saw a sensuous, sophisticated face, and classified the man as an idling waster. Zelka smiled as he strolled onward.
The young man stopped in the apartment vestibule, glanced into a box which bore the name “Hugo Urvin”; then continued through until he reached the automatic elevator, which he took to the fourth floor.
Entering his apartment, Hugo Urvin threw his hat and coat aside, and slouched in an easy-chair. The place was in disorder, for Urvin no longer had the services of a valet. Clothes were strewn here and there; the table was covered with unpaid bills.
Even the young man’s most prized possessions — framed photographs of a dozen or more debutantes — were heaped upon a corner chair. Hugo Urvin was contemplating a swift move from this apartment, for which he owed more than two months’ rent.
Ward Zelka’s mental impression of the young man’s characteristics were correct. Hugo Urvin, scion of a wealthy family, had a wide range of social acquaintances. He possessed a smooth, ingratiating personality that enabled him to retain his friends. Recently, however, he had displayed bad traits which were much to his discredit.
His continued winnings at the card table had ended; not through ill luck, but by a shortage of players who cared to indulge in poker with him. Certain friends had called him to task because of his gross negligence in squaring debts which he had promised to settle.
On the ragged edge, Hugo Urvin was ready for anything; and there were people who suspected it. No finger of direct accusation could be pointed toward him, but there were many acquaintances who would not have been surprised, had Hugo Urvin been suddenly branded as a crook.
Two desires filled Urvin’s present mood. The first was money. The second was dependent upon the first: namely, a way of getting money without sacrificing his threadbare social status. Easy funds, from a well-concealed source, would be much to Hugo Urvin’s liking.
THE telephone rang. Hugo Urvin frowned. He had managed to keep the telephone service connected, but it had recently become a nuisance. Bill collectors and other debtors were using it more frequently than friends who extended invitations to social engagements.
For a few moments, Urvin was on the point of letting the telephone ring unanswered; then, the sight of the stacked photos on the chair reminded him that evening was the time to expect calls from various girl friends. Hugo Urvin picked up the receiver and ventured a smooth “Hello.”
There was momentary silence. Then came a crackly voice that spoke in a slow, hesitating tone, placing peculiar accent upon each syllable:
“Is this Mr. Hugo Urvin?”
“Yes,” responded the young man. Silence; then the voice:
“Would you like to have money?”
The peculiar gloating of the tone sounded like a ridicule of the young man’s present financial condition.