For in the odd features of Thomas Rodan, Lamont Cranston saw the identical characteristics that had marked the faces of Earl Northrup and Harold Thurber!
Here, staring toward him, was the third man in a chain of those who looked alike, and whose recent histories had been subject to similar circumstances.
Amazing and fantastic though the situation was, Lamont Cranston betrayed none of the thoughts that were in his mind. Instead, he calmly turned the talk to the proposed purchasing of land in the vicinity of Daltona. Tom Rodan listened solemnly.
It developed that Lamont Cranston was a man of great wealth; that he had decided to invest in real estate; that through some source — Cranston could not recall the exact circumstances — he had been advised to consult with Thomas Rodan.
In all this discussion, Lamont Cranston failed to display any knowledge whatever of the unfortunate events which had so recently entered Rodan’s career. Coming from New York, a total stranger in Daltona, it was only natural that Cranston should know nothing of the murders which had been committed in the Davenport home.
THE fact that the deaths of his wife and father-in-law were important in Rodan’s mind was evidenced by the man himself. Shrewdly, Rodan suspected some connection between Cranston’s presence and the deaths. He wanted to test Cranston, and he chose a suitable opportunity.
Cranston had reached the point of expressing a readiness to buy subdivision properties on the outskirts of Daltona. He was ready to be sold. That was where Rodan found his chance.
“I should like to do business with you, Mr. Cranston,” he remarked. “However, I have been in a very troubled state of mind recently. I had the misfortune of losing both my wife and father-in-law — and through a most regrettable accident. Their deaths have disturbed me greatly.”
Rodan was looking directly at Cranston as he spoke. His words were carefully phrased and well chosen. Rodan was watching Cranston’s eyes; but he could trace no change in them. Yet, when Cranston responded by word, there was a cryptic significance in his statement.
“My sympathy,” said Cranston, “is always extended to those who have suffered the loss of those who are dear to them.”
The tone was sincere, but the impersonal phraseology offset it. The words could be interpreted so they did not reply to Rodan. They left the man wondering more than he had before.
Thus, by action, Cranston had given no indication that could arouse Rodan’s suspicion; while by word, he had obtained exactly the opposite effect.
As a result, Rodan made another shift of decision. He had planned to postpone any pending business matters that Cranston might propose. Now, he was desirous of continuing the battle of wits.
“Suppose that I drive you around a bit,” suggested Rodan. “We can look over some desirable properties outside of the town limits. Frankly, Mr. Cranston, I have temporarily laid business aside; but since you have come here from New York, I feel that it would only be the part of courtesy to accommodate you.”
Cranston called for the lunch check. Drawing a wallet from his pocket, he searched the interior until he discovered a ten-dollar bill. Rodan, watching, noted that most of the bank notes were of five-hundred and one-thousand-dollar denominations.
Outside, Rodan invited Cranston in his car, and the two visited the outskirts of Daltona. Cranston showed a keen interest in the most desirable sites. Time and again, Rodan artfully turned the conversation toward matters that concerned himself; but Cranston invariably avoided such subjects. It was late in the afternoon when they returned to the hotel.
“I am quite interested in Daltona, Mr. Rodan,” said Cranston, as he alighted from the car. “In fact, I have learned much that I wanted to find out. I intend to return to New York tonight. In fact, I shall leave before eight o’clock. You will hear from me later — perhaps unexpectedly.”
Cranston extended his hand. He looked squarely at Rodan. It was then that Rodan again saw that peculiar light in Cranston’s eyes — the gleam that carried a mesmeric glint.
Try as he might, Rodan could not withdraw his gaze until Cranston turned and stepped away. Rodan gripped the wheel before him, and drove up the street toward his home.
As he neared the Davenport house, Rodan laughed nervously. He realized now that he had been undergoing a nervous tension. He felt a marked sense of relief. But after that feeling had faded, a pronounced worry took its place.
RODAN realized that he had been matching wits with a man of cunning. Not once had Cranston made a false move; but he had betrayed a subtle antagonism that Rodan had detected. As a result, Rodan’s worry began to increase; and each moment brought him into deeper perplexity.
Who was Lamont Cranston?
The man had stated that he was a millionaire. The money that he had so subtly exhibited was possible proof of the statement.
A few months ago, Rodan would have been highly pleased to have met a prospective customer like Cranston. Now, with the settlement of the Davenport estate pending, Rodan had no such feeling. He regarded Cranston chiefly in the light of a menace.
Here in Daltona, not one iota of suspicion remained attached to Rodan’s name. Everywhere, he met with heartfelt sympathy. It had remained for a stranger from New York to arouse Rodan’s qualms.
Since the murders at the Davenport home, Rodan had lived there in seclusion. He had hired a housekeeper, and had made a practice of dining alone. Tonight, in the large, empty dining room, Rodan found himself thinking more and more about Lamont Cranston.
Some peculiar influence controlled Rodan’s mind. All his thoughts returned to those eyes that had watched him. At times, a twisted smile began to appear upon Rodan’s lips — a sign of half-hearted elation because he had been keen enough to suspect Cranston as a man who had come here with a secret purpose.
Then, the smile faded quickly as Rodan realized that his suspicions brought him nowhere.
Who was Cranston? A detective?
The thought seemed ridiculous. Why should some stranger have come here to investigate a case that had been proven groundless?
No. To all appearances, Cranston was what he claimed to be — a prospective investor in real estate.
Rodan’s mind could not change from the one subject. He began to wonder if Cranston had been a creature of his own imagination. After dinner, as he walked from the dining room, Rodan felt a strange, unaccountable dread. He began to fancy that his nerve was leaving him.
As he entered the living room, Rodan paused. He thought he heard a sound from the front door. He turned quickly, half expecting to see someone there. The door was closed.
Rodan stared into the gloomy hall. For a moment, he was on the point of probing its shadowy recesses. Then he laughed coarsely and continued into the living room.
The moment that Rodan’s back was turned, something moved in the darkness of the hall. A tall, blackclad form came into being. It materialized itself into the figure of a man — a weird personage, whose sable garments were a cloak and hat.
Two bright eyes gleamed as this mysterious visitor noiselessly crossed the hall and stationed himself outside the living-room door.
Tom Rodan seated himself in a chair. For a moment, he was nervous; then his evil smile appeared. A man of iron nerve, he believed himself to be. Why should he be troubled by foolish worries?
He was ready to forget Lamont Cranston — on the point of deciding that the man was merely a chance visitor to Daltona, when something occurred that caused him to clutch the arms of his chair and stare about him in unrestrained terror.
“MURDERER!”
The word came in a low, mysterious whisper. It was like the voice of conscience.
Rodan was sure that he had heard the accusation; yet he could see no one in the room. Rising, he walked quickly into the hall and reached the front door. He stopped there; and while he waited, his back was turned so he could not see the tall form that came batlike from the wall beside the living-room door.