Could it be that sand had buried the Good Wind completely, making Ronjan’s invention useless?
Was Ronjan entitled to a larger share because of the increased investment, or should the added cost be charged against him because he had failed to hire Dom Yuble earlier?
Farnsworth had answered those questions. In his opinion, he should still receive the major share. Apparently, Ronjan was agreed, but if so, Farnsworth felt that Ronjan himself should defray the added cost.
This brought up another question: Why not let Ronjan pay it? From that came a further query: Did Ronjan have the money?
Farnsworth claimed yes to both.
Then why hadn’t Ronjan undertaken the entire project on his own?
Easily answered, that question. In Farnsworth’s opinion, Ronjan had wanted others to bear the freight in case of failure. It was time that Ronjan admitted the fault and until he did, Farnsworth wouldn’t put up another penny. That was final and it ended the report.
Amid the clatter of the horse’s hoofs, Margo looked up from her notes and said:
“Do you know what Farnsworth really thinks?”
“I’m interested,” replied Cranston. “So tell me.”
“Farnsworth thinks that he can outlast Ronjan,” declared Margo. “Farnsworth has to pay rent anyway, up at that de luxe apartment of his. But Ronjan can’t live forever at the Chateau Parkview; he’s staying there only while the treasure hunt is on. So Farnsworth thinks that Ronjan will have to come around begging sooner or later - and probably sooner.”
It pleased Margo when she saw that Cranston was responding with a nod. Getting Lamont to admit anything was quite a feather for Margo’s cap, except that she wasn’t wearing a cap and therefore couldn’t put feathers in it.
Cranston proved that when he countered:
“Do you know what I think?”
Margo shook her head.
“I think,” decided Cranston; “that it would be a lot of fun to take a ride on a merry-go-round. We’ll stop right here and try it.” He gestured to the driver indicating that he wanted the carriage to stop. “I’m sure it would clear our minds of a lot of problems, Margo.”
Right then, Margo Lane decided that she’d like to have her mind cleared of one specific problem, by name Lamont Cranston, whose idea of fun was something Margo didn’t think was funny.
THE merry-go-round was some distance away, across a stretch of hard-baked ground and it proved to be a very dilapidated affair. Despite herself, Margo was intrigued by the fact that Cranston had discovered a forgotten carrousel, off here in Central Park.
“Why, it’s terribly old!” exclaimed Margo. “Probably nobody has used it for years!”
“Better say hours,” suggested Cranston. “The same applies to that old stable over there.”
Looking among the trees, Margo saw the stable. It was a brick building oddly constructed. Up here they were on the level with the stable’s second story, because the first floor - which might have been termed a basement - extended down into a stone wall flanking a deep transverse.
This was rather interesting, but Margo was more impressed by the merry-go-round. She knew that one was in operation in Central Park, but this wasn’t it. This one had apparently been forgotten for years, but it was due for revival. The interior was freshly painted; so were the wooden animals, what there were of them.
Most of the carved animals were gone, but the dozen on display were spick-and-span, fresh from the paint shop where the rest were probably undergoing treatment. Lions, tigers, even a miniature giraffe gained Margo’s fascinating stare, until Cranston interrupted:
“What would you say of a merry-go-round that had a boa constrictor, Margo?”
The very thought shuddered Margo. Apparently serious, Cranston gestured toward the stable and as they walked in that direction, Margo saw traces of the very creature suggested. Cleaving its way through the dusty topsoil was a broad streak that looked exactly like a snake’s trail!
Small wonder that Margo’s shudders increased as they neared the stable, but Cranston promptly reassured her.
“It wasn’t a snake,” he stated. “It was a rope. It came out through there.”
By “there” Cranston referred to a space beneath a side door of the stable and the door itself was unusual. It looked like a door for horses, except that it was so small a horse would have had to crawl through on its knees. The door was locked, but Cranston opened it with a skeleton key and bowed Margo inside.
Right near the little door were some old stalls of miniature size, which answered Margo’s mental query.
“They must have kept ponies here, Lamont!”
“Wrong,” replied Cranston. “They kept goats. It was quite fun, years ago, for children to go riding in little wagons drawn by goats. You should delve into the history of Central Park, Margo.”
There were larger stalls on the other side of the stable, near the big door, while in a corner Cranston indicated a platform set in the stone floor.
“They kept horses in those big stalls,” he explained, “and there were a lot more downstairs. That platform is an elevator that was used to haul hay up from below.”
The wooden platform rattled when Cranston stepped upon it, but it bore his weight quite easily.
“This elevator was used last night,” declared Cranston in a tone that seemed more than mere conjecture. “A taxicab was hauled up from the floor below and sent out through the big door. Another cab came in and was lowered to the transverse level. After that the elevator was brought up again.”
Margo suddenly shook her head.
“Couldn’t be,” she insisted. “The elevator may be strong enough, but there’s no motive power to haul up anything as heavy as a taxicab.”
“I told you about the rope,” reminded Cranston. “It was hooked to the elevator.”
“But who pulled it? A dozen men?”
“The merry-go-round pulled it. That’s where the rope was attached. The rope is under the merry-go-round now, all wound around.”
With that statement, Lamont Cranston was explaining the muffed music that Phil Harley had heard the night before. Margo knew nothing about that, but she realized the importance of the cab switch.
“You mean that’s how Winslow Ames was abducted?” Margo asked.
“It’s how the job was covered up,” returned Cranston. “I think that Ames was taken along past the merry-go-round and later dropped from a bridge over the transverse into a passing truck.”
“What would the police think of that story?”
“If you would like to know,” responded Cranston, blandly, “suppose we go and find out.”
They rode in the old hack to Central Park South and there took a cab to the swank Cobalt Club where Commissioner Weston was often found late in the afternoon. The commissioner was present and Inspector Cardona with him, but when Cranston suggested his theory, it registered a total blank.
“I was thinking about the Ames case,” began Cranston. “If his cab had gone to Central Park -”
“I suppose the banshee would have gotten him,” interrupted Weston. “Only it didn’t, because there isn’t any banshee and Ames didn’t go to Central Park.”
Cardona added an opinion.
“We’re covering the park like a blanket,” the inspector claimed. “The only cab that gave us any trouble was a fellow with a flat at the entrance to a transverse. He fixed the flat and went through.”
Cranston nodded.
“Eastbound, of course.”
“That’s right,” rejoined Cardona. “When he came out the east side, he stopped to report to an officer stationed there” - Joe paused - “say what made you think he went from west to east? Do they get more flat tires on the West Side?”
“It was just a guess,” replied Cranston. “At what time was this reported?”
“The fellow started to fix the flat just before Ames left the hotel,” said Cardona, referring to a long list of reports, “so he couldn’t have had anything to do with the case. Central Park is out.”