Ransdale looked up quietly as he heard Hazzlett enter. The husky valet had come with an announcement.
“Call from the lobby, sir,” he said. “A gentleman named Lamont Cranston has come to see you. A friend of the commissioner’s, sir.”
“Lamont Cranston.” Ransdale was speculative. “Yes — I recall the name. I’ve heard of him before — have met him in fact. He’s the chap who travels everywhere. Tell him to come up, Hazzlett.”
The servant went to the living room. Ransdale, rising, stacked newspapers in orderly piles. While he was relighting his pipe, he heard the outer door of the apartment open. Facing the door, Ransdale stepped forward to greet a tall, quiet-faced individual whom Hazzlett had ushered across the living room.
“Good evening, Mr. Cranston,” greeted Ransdale. “I recall that we have met before.”
“At the Cobalt Club, perhaps?” questioned Cranston.
“That must have been the place,” nodded Ransdale. He motioned Cranston to a comfortable chair.
Although he did not express it, Ransdale was curious as to the purpose of Cranston’s visit. As a preliminary gesture, he beckoned to Hazzlett, and the valet brought a box of expensive cigars from which Cranston selected one.
WHILE his visitor was lighting the perfecto, Ransdale noted him closely. The light of a match revealed Cranston’s unusual features. The visage which Ransdale saw was a hawklike countenance, with a calmness that reminded the observer of a living mask.
A pair of sparkling eyes turned toward Ransdale as Cranston shook out the lighted match.
Those eyes, in turn, saw an unusual face. They took in the firmness of Ransdale’s countenance. The mine owner had a pleasant, well-formed visage; it was one, however, that showed hidden determination. Ransdale’s eyes were keen; he was obviously a man who could rise to action, as he had proven in his battle with Terry Rukes.
“I come to congratulate you, Mr. Ransdale.” The words issued in even tones from the thin lips of Lamont Cranston. “You have done society a great service through your prompt action here. In delivering death to that gang of ruffians, you performed a duty I should have been pleased to aid.”
“It was really nothing much,” protested Ransdale, with a modest laugh. “Hazzlett — my servant — and I were in ambush. We are both good shots. We practice marksmanship a great deal out at the mines in Colorado.”
“I held no doubts as to the capability of your marksmanship,” came Cranston’s smiling reply. “My only regret was that you did not have an opportunity to spot the hidden leader of the game — The Black Falcon.”
“I hold the same regret,” returned Ransdale. “The villain never appeared within the apartment. Neither Hazzlett nor I caught a glimpse of him. Police Commissioner Weston told me that he had seen The Black Falcon, out at the home of Elias Carthers.”
“I saw him there also,” remarked Cranston. “I was just too late to aim for him. I did, however, bag one of his henchmen, at long range.”
“The one who was killed on the lawn?” queried Ransdale.
“Yes,” answered Cranston.
“I recall the incident,” nodded Ransdale. “Commissioner Weston mentioned it. He said that a friend had saved his life on that occasion. You were the friend?”
“I was.
“Then,” decided Ransdale, “you are a member of our select trio. Like Hazzlett and myself, you bagged a minion of The Black Falcon. I realize, Mr. Cranston, that you, like myself, would be pleased to take a shot at the master criminal himself. If you have any scheme for falcon hunting, the suggestion would interest me.”
“That work belongs to the police,” declared Cranston. “Nevertheless, Mr. Ransdale, I feel that I should take a personal interest in the case. In fact, I am willing to spend a great deal of time and money in this matter. I knew Hubert Apprison. Elias Carthers was also a friend of mine. They are prisoners of The Black Falcon; and they should be delivered.”
“Precisely,” agreed Ransdale. “I knew both of those men by acquaintance. My social contacts in New York are wide, but spasmodic, due to my frequent absence from the city. You are right, Cranston. Any clew to The Black Falcon is important. Commissioner Weston tells me, however, that his men are on the trail of the crook himself. They know his identity.”
“They are after a man named Velvet Laffrey,” said Cranston with a nod. “That has not been made public—”
“Wisely so,” returned Ransdale. “Weston spoke to me regarding the matter, in hopes that I might be able to provide some information. I have encountered confidence men at rare intervals — but I could not recall any one who answered to the description of this man Laffrey.
“After all, Mr. Cranston, The Black Falcon needed only a passing acquaintance with the affairs of his victims. Apprison — Carthers — myself — all of us were open to attack. We were men of wealth who never gave a thought to our security.
“It was merely good fortune that Hazzlett happened to be in the room at the far end of the apartment. The window was open. He went to close it. He heard voices on the fire tower. He suspected danger, as this is the only occupied apartment on the fourth floor. That was how I came to call the police commissioner; and at his advice, Hazzlett and I prepared the trap.”
“You may still be in danger,” interposed Cranston’s meditative tone. “Have you considered that fact, Mr. Ransdale?”
THE mine owner smiled, and his lips showed his confidence. Reaching in the pocket of his smoking jacket, he produced a .38-caliber revolver and broke it so that Cranston’s eyes could view the loaded chambers.
“Hazzlett is similarly armed,” informed Ransdale. “Let The Black Falcon launch a new attack. We shall be ready for him. Moreover, the police are guarding this vicinity. No, Mr. Cranston, I am convinced that The Black Falcon will leave me alone hereafter. I doubt that The Black Falcon would be foolish enough to let a grudge interfere with his plan of action.
“If such were his policy, he might have it in for you — presuming that he has learned that you were responsible for the death of one of his henchmen on the night that he kidnapped Elias Carthers. Have you considered that fact?”
“Yes,” returned Cranston, “and I, like yourself, have ignored it. I happened to be armed on the night when I arrived at the Carthers house. That was simply because I was traveling alone in my coupe and I usually carry an automatic on such occasions.
“A .38?”
“No. A .45.”
Ransdale’s eyes opened widely. He snapped his revolver shut and laughed as he dropped the weapon back into his pocket.
“You go in for heavy artillery!” he exclaimed.
“Anything up to an elephant gun,” declared Cranston, with a smile. “I handle weapons in accordance with their size. A .45 obtains results.”
“Yes,” agreed Ransdale, “but as a pocket weapon” — he shrugged his shoulders — “even my own revolver is too large. I would prefer a short-barreled gun for ordinary occasions.”
“I need no weapons,” explained Cranston, “except when I am alone. I have servants at my New Jersey home; ordinarily, when I ride back and forth from New York, I travel in my limousine, with my chauffeur, Stanley, at the wheel.
“I have never encountered trouble either at home or on the road with Stanley. It is only when I ride by myself that I require precautions.”
“Like the rest of us,” observed Ransdale, “you are ordinarily careless. Hazzlett and I had our guns packed away two nights ago. It was merely fortune that aided us. Had we not heard the men on the fire tower, we would have been easy prey for The Black Falcon.”
“I choose to be careless,” declared Cranston. “I shall never make my home into an armed camp. Like yourself, I am a man of wealth. But I feel convinced that such rascals as The Black Falcon prefer to attack those who are apparent weaklings, like Apprison and Carthers. Particularly” — the thin lips were smiling in approbation — “after the reception that he and his mobsmen received when they tried to seize a man who could fight.”