The logic of it made Phil smile.
“I was reading about banshees,” he acknowledged. “I suppose I was in a mood to think somebody vanished.”
With that, Phil started to the lobby to seek Arlene, but he couldn’t subdue the belief that he wasn’t going to find her. The lobby was large and by Phil’s calculations, Arlene would have had to do some fast footwork to reach the street door before he saw her. Still, she wasn’t in sight, which was just what Phil expected.
An elevator was standing open; the dials of the others showed them around the higher floors. The only stairway, a rather grand affair, was as distant as the street door. That left only the restaurant as the one place near enough for Arlene to reach. But when Phil reached the entrance to the cafe and surveyed its expanse of tables, he still couldn’t locate the missing blonde.
The cafe was only about half-filled and spotting Arlene should have been easy, provided she was there, although the place had some pillars that partly obscured Phil’s view. More puzzled than ever, Phil turned toward the lobby again and stared right at a girl who met him with a smile.
The newcomer wasn’t Arlene. To even presume that she might he would mark the transformation as the fastest and most convincing quick-change on record. This girl was a brunette, with sleek, black hair, a complexion that was clear, yet in a sense darkish because of its slight olive tint. Her dark eyes seemed wondering and gave the same effect to her smile, yet with it there was something strangely exotic in the brunette’s demeanor.
Those dark eyes fixed on the tiny bit of lilac that embellished Phil’s lapel. The girl inquired:
“You are Mr. Phil Harley?”
That was what she said, but it didn’t sound the way it spelled. There was something musical about the girl’s accent that made the words sound better when she mispronounced them. Staring hard, to make sure this girl wouldn’t vanish, too, Phil acknowledged his identity with a nod.
“Very good,” the brunette declared. “I was told to meet you here. We are to have dinner together. Shall we?”
Blonde or brunette, name or no name, Phil Harley decided that it made no difference, provided there were no more vanishes. At least from this girl, he might learn something of the situation as it concerned Arlene Forster.
Phil Harley felt he was on the verge of a mystery. He was wrong. He was right in the middle of one!
FROM the terrace apartment where Craig Farnsworth lived, Central Park appeared now as a vast patch of black velvet, studded with jewels of light. It seemed odd, as Margo Lane considered it, how great a change a few hours could produce in that setting.
Even more odd what a few minutes had done back at the Chateau Parkview, where a peculiar drama had developed involving Phil Harley and Arlene Forster, two persons whose connection with an existing mystery had begun too late for Lamont Cranston to learn about it!
While Margo studied the darkened park and also the distant line of buildings to the south of it, Cranston listened to Farnsworth’s discourse on the subject of Ronjan’s treasure quest.
Craig Farnsworth was a big man and emphatic in proportion to his size. He was also a big money man, or he couldn’t have afforded this fancy apartment in a high-priced neighborhood on the upper East Side. But having made his money, Farnsworth wasn’t the man to part with it too quickly.
“Ronjan’s proposal is very simple,” summed Farnsworth, in a scoffing tone. “We’re to put up the extra money, but he is to gain the big share of the treasure. How does that proposition strike you?”
“As a very minor shareholder,” returned Cranston, “I would prefer to hear your opinion, Farnsworth.”
“Quite naturally.” A smile spread over Farnsworth’s broad, ruddy face. “You would only have to contribute pro rata to the loan. If I risked much, you would be willing to risk little. Is that it?”
“That is it.”
“Very well then,” Farnsworth decided. “I shall advance Ronjan all the money he needs” - there was a pause while Farnsworth watched Cranston raise his eyebrows as an expression of surprise - “provided he puts up suitable bond.”
This brought an actual smile from Cranston.
“If Ronjan could post a bond,” he stated, “he wouldn’t need to borrow the money.”
“I said a suitable bond,” defined Farnsworth. “By that I mean that Ronjan should give over ownership in his articulated under-water tube provided he fails to deliver.”
“But failure would prove the tube worthless.”
“Not to my mind, Cranston. I believe the device is thoroughly practical. It may not be suited to present conditions and that is the chance that I am taking. I want Ronjan to share the hazard.”
Cranston understood. Full ownership of the diving tunnel would mean that Farnsworth and any associates could use it for other projects if this one failed. However, Farnsworth still had confidence in the present enterprise.
“We’ve double-checked the story of that treasure off Skipper’s Rock,” declared Farnsworth. “It belonged to Master Glanvil, who owned the brig Good Wind, which was chartered under a letter-of-marque. Unfortunately Master Glanvil turned pirate himself, while he was supposed to be preying on corsairs, much like Captain Kidd did.
“It was on account of what happened to Kidd that Glanvil wouldn’t come into port. Meanwhile, the men who had backed him as a privateer, an Association of Adventurers, they called themselves, saw their investment dwindling away if Glanvil skipped.”
Margo was listening now from the terrace rail, forgetful of Central Park and its mysterious charm, in view of this thrilling tale.
“The Association of Adventurers had their rights of course,” continued Farnsworth. “The treasure was declared legally theirs, the question of Glanvil’s status being another matter. However they unloaded their shares cheap and the whole was bought out by a hard-headed old Dutchman named Thales Van Woort.”
As Farnsworth paused, Cranston put in an appropriate comment.
“A good example, Farnsworth,” said Cranston. “Why don’t you buy out all other shares in the missing treasure the way Van Woort did?”
“Because a fool and his money are soon parted,” returned Farnsworth. “Not being a fool, I prefer to part with my money slowly. Still, if Ronjan wants to sell out entirely, I am willing to buy. But getting back to history -”
Pausing long enough to pour a round of drinks, Farnsworth proceeded.
“Old Van Woort hired a smuggler named Caleb Albersham to go out and urge Master Glanvil to come into port. It was a smart move, for Albersham was close to a pirate in his own right. Maybe the fact that Albersham was still at large was supposed to influence Glanvil, but it didn’t.
“After a few trips, made secretly of course, so the authorities wouldn’t interfere, Albersham went out again and this time he was supposed to have papers on him guaranteeing a safe-conduct to Glanvil. I suppose Van Woort paid for them too, through the proper official channels.
“Anyway, it was too late. A storm was coming up and Albersham’s sloop, the Rover, which left openly that trip, headed square into trouble that the Good Wind had already met. It was a bad wind for the Good Wind, because she went down off Skipper’s Rock and the Rover failed to outride the storm.
“Wreckage from the Good Wind was found on Skipper’s Rock and chunks of the Rover washed ashore out toward Montauk Point, where she was carried by the hurricane. So here’s to the Good Wind and the Rover” - Farnsworth raised his glass - “and salt your drink with a few tears for old Thales Van Woort whose fortune lies off Skipper’s Rock.”
It was the first time that Margo had heard the detailed story of the missing treasure, but she wasn’t crying over Van Woort’s loss. She was thinking of a legend she’d heard once: how mermaids were supposed to hover around sunken treasure, and the connection made her think of the Central Park banshee.