“Sorry, commissioner,” said Joe. “I was checking up on some joints where I thought I might find Velvet Laffrey. The man isn’t in New York—”
“He will be,” interposed Weston.
“Will be?” questioned Cardona.
“Yes,” assured Weston. “Tonight. This arrived at three o’clock.”
Weston tossed a sheet of paper across the desk. Cardona stared, and a firm challenge showed upon his chin. This paper was a letter. In the upper left corner was the neat engraving of a hawklike bird. Thrust through the bottom of the sheet was the symbol that served as a signature — a black feather.
Another message from The Black Falcon!
“Read it!” ordered Weston.
CARDONA studied the letter. It was addressed to the commissioner and it was couched in the same ironical terms as the previous epistle of warning:
Ralph Weston,
Police Commissioner,
New York City.
Dear Sir:
Despite my advice to forget the disappearance of Hubert Apprison, you chose to put me to the test. The result of your folly was the abduction of Elias Carthers, not only from a spot under your jurisdiction, but almost from beneath your very nose.
Elias Carthers, like Hubert Apprison, is a man of great wealth. I am holding both as prisoners in order to obtain the ransoms that I desire. I am offering you the opportunity to cease your annoying interference, which consists only in stirring up ridiculous rumors.
I suggest that you announce that both Hubert Apprison and Elias Carthers will soon be returned and that there will be no effort on the part of the police to trouble the abductor.
Unless such a statement appears in the evening newspapers upon the day that you receive this letter, I shall be forced to teach you another lesson by abducting another gentleman of prominence.
This third proof of my ability — if you unwisely choose to force it — will be demonstrated within the limits of Manhattan. This time, I shall experience no regrets.
Joe Cardona had no comment. He stared blankly at the letter as he placed it on the table; then looked vaguely toward the police commissioner.
“This is serious, Cardona,” stated Weston. “When I received The Black Falcon’s last note, I was fortunate enough to strike upon a theory that gave me a trace of his intended crime. Tonight, I have no theory.
“There are many men of wealth in Manhattan. We can limit the location of The Black Falcon’s activity only to a place where a suitable victim may be available. Our only hope is that the vigilance of the police may be rewarded with a stroke of good fortune.
“The public is aroused, of course, because of the newspapers. All sorts of calls have come into headquarters. Other crime is somewhat passive. Yet to apprehend The Black Falcon, we should be forewarned. We lost our opportunity when we failed to save Elias Carthers. I greatly fear that we shall not gain a second stroke of such good fortune.”
The commissioner settled glumly back in his chair. His usual criticism was absent now. Weston realized that Joe Cardona had been doing his utmost. The helplessness of the present situation was beyond control.
Yet Cardona knew that Weston had summoned him here in the hope of some useful suggestion. The detective racked his brain. His hunches were missing. Like Weston, he felt that he was beaten. The Black Falcon, crook extraordinary, had found the weak spots in the armor of the law.
WHILE the two men sat in silence, each ticking minute increased the gloom. Somewhere — tonight — The Black Falcon was due to strike. The time of his crime was approaching with ominous regularity. Cardona, like Weston, sensed that the next news would be a call from detective headquarters stating that word of another kidnapping had been received.
The jingle of the telephone bell on Weston’s desk snapped the commissioner into life. Cardona saw the tenseness in his superior’s face. Weston lifted receiver to ear and spoke in a listless tone.
“Hello… Yes, this is Commissioner Weston… Who? Ransdale… Rowland Ransdale… The mine owner… Yes… Yes…”
For a moment, Cardona thought that the expected call had come. He recalled the name of Rowland Ransdale, a wealthy mine owner who had returned from the West. Here was a victim for The Black Falcon!
But as Cardona saw an eager expression creep over Weston’s face, he sensed that the commissioner was not receiving news of a kidnapping. This was a message of another sort.
“You are sure of it, Mr. Ransdale?”
As he heard these words, Cardona realized that Weston was talking to Ransdale himself. Listening intently, the detective tried to catch the voice over the wire, but succeeded only in judging the conversation by Weston’s own replies.
“Yes… Yourself and your servant… I understand… You have investigated, you say… You are sure… What’s that? Two revolvers?
“Good… Yes… I shall have men there at once… Yes… Wait as long as possible. Give us time to form a cordon… The Black Falcon… Yes… We shall enter as soon as the apartment building is surrounded… A shot — in case of emergency — as a signal… Yes… Protect yourself as you see fit.”
Down went the receiver. Commissioner Weston leaped to his feet. He paused for a tense moment; then grabbed up the telephone again and put in a call to headquarters. Joe Cardona was on his feet also.
He heard the commissioner’s eager voice, giving orders in quick, disjointed phrases that brought an inkling of the story to Cardona’s excited mind.
“Garman Apartments — fourth floor — Rowland Ransdale — fire tower entrance on Ninety-fourth Street — cordon — The Black Falcon — enter when completely surrounded — radio patrols—”
ALL was hectic until the call was ended. Cardona realized that Weston had been talking tensely; that his own anxiousness had brought about much of the broken impression. Weston, standing in back of the desk, faced Cardona and spoke, with a steadying tone in his voice.
“Rowland Ransdale,” declared the commissioner, in explanation, “lives in the Garman Apartments. The window of his servant’s room opens by the fire tower. The servant — Ransdale’s valet — heard men talking there. Ransdale has been listening. He heard the words ‘The Falcon’.
“Ransdale has a gun. So has his valet. They are waiting in darkness, with a light in Ransdale’s den as a lure. I have given orders for a cordon to surround the apartment house.
“Ransdale will hold out; in emergency, he will fire. The shot will bring in all our men. The fire tower is being covered.”
Regaining his dynamic bearing, Commissioner Weston strode from behind the desk. He gripped Joe Cardona by the arm and drew him through the front door of the office.
“Let us hope,” announced Weston, “that the cordon will be waiting when we arrive; that Ransdale will still be watching for The Black Falcon. My car is downstairs, Cardona. Luck is with us. If it continues” — the commissioner laughed sternly — “you and I shall rectify the mistake which we made at Long Island.
“We, Cardona, shall be the first to reach the fourth floor. Tonight, we may meet The Black Falcon at the moment when he strikes!”
CHAPTER XI
AT THE APARTMENT
SILENCE rested over the Garman Apartments. A large building, away from heavy traffic, it formed a huge mass in the darkness, with lighted windows far apart.
Crouched in the gloom of the fire tower was Terry Rukes. The mob leader’s henchmen formed a group close by him. Tensely, they were waiting the signal that would bring them through the corridor to the apartment on the left.
Terry, peering through the door to the corridor, returned to offer growled advice which his gorillas accepted. The gang leader’s nervousness was no longer apparent.