RANSDALE’S responding smile was a pleased one. The mine owner liked Cranston’s commendation. He puffed his pipe; then became serious.
“You are right, Mr. Cranston,” asserted Ransdale. “We both have done our part in thwarting The Black Falcon. However, as men of wealth, we represent a distinct class of society. So long as this hawk of crime remains uncaptured, it is our part to be ready to cooperate with the police.
“I appreciate your visit. Should you require my aid, financially, in any measure that you plan to undertake, you may count upon it. I feel, however, that I should make my present situation plain to you. Frankly, I am nervous, since my combat with those mobsters. I am going to take a trip from New York.”
“To the West?”
“No. To a secluded residence in the Catskills. The weather is pleasant and I have an excellent house far off in the confines of the forest land. Hazzlett is going with me; I have caretakers at the place upon whom I can rely. I am the one upon whom The Black Falcon has real reason for revenge. I need a vacation. Like yourself, I prefer to be careless — or let us say carefree. A gun in readiness — police on the watch — such things annoy me.”
“We are of the same mind,” came Cranston’s statement, as the tall visitor arose from his chair. “I am glad to have met you again, Mr. Ransdale. Let us hope that the renewal of the acquaintance will lead to a future meeting.”
“It will,” assured Ransdale, walking to the door with his guest. “I assure you, Mr. Cranston, that immediately upon my return to New York, I shall communicate with you.”
“Either at my home in New Jersey,” invited Cranston, “or at the Cobalt Club. You are welcome at either place at any time. And let us hope that when we meet again, we shall be able to discuss the matter of The Black Falcon as a more tangible subject.”
“Agreed,” responded Ransdale, as he shook hands with his guest at the door to the corridor.
The mine owner waited at the door until the tall form of Lamont Cranston had entered an elevator. Then Ransdale turned back into his apartment. He strolled across the living room and entered his den. He puffed his pipe; then chuckled and called to his servant. The husky valet entered.
“Hazzlett,” then remarked Ransdale, “what is your opinion of our recent visitor?”
“A quiet sort of bloke,” returned the servant.
“Who do you think he is?” A knowing smile was creeping over Ransdale’s lips.
“He said,” replied Hazzlett, wondering, “that his name was Lamont Cranston—”
“I know that,” interposed Ransdale. “But you know well enough, Hazzlett, that one individual can sometimes play two parts—”
“You — you don’t mean” — Hazzlett was stammering — “that — that Lamont Cranston is—”
“You are guessing it, Hazzlett,” prompted Ransdale, his smile becoming an evil twist. “Lamont Cranston is The Shadow!”
CHAPTER XIII
THE FALCON SCHEMES
ROWLAND RANSDALE laughed harshly as he stared at his servant, Hazzlett. The valet’s countenance had whitened. Hazzlett slumped into a chair and stared at his employer. Even the contemptuous look of complete assurance that Ransdale wore was not sufficient to overcome the valet’s consternation.
“Take a drink, Hazzlett,” snarled Ransdale suddenly. “Brace up. I told you this would be coming.”
The servant nodded weakly. He arose and went to a small cabinet. He brought out a bottle, poured himself a long drink and downed the liquor. His face had lost some of its whiteness when Hazzlett again turned toward Ransdale.
“You don’t think” — Hazzlett was trying to be steady — “and he knows — that he knows about you—”
“That I am The Black Falcon?” Ransdale laughed scornfully. “Not a chance of it, Hazzlett. He’s fallen for the game, just like the rest of them. I knew that he would be here, two nights ago. That, Hazzlett, was why I made you play your part. I went through with everything, just as though we were being watched. You heard Terry Rukes scream when I dropped him.”
Hazzlett nodded.
“Terry saw The Shadow,” declared Ransdale. “In this room. I suspected that The Shadow might be here. The Shadow is clever, Hazzlett, but a nighttime prowler who trails crooks is no match for The Black Falcon.”
“But you always said” — Hazzlett was protesting as he sat down in a chair and unsteadily placed his glass upon a table beside him — “that if The Shadow would—”
“I always considered The Shadow to be a menace,” interposed Ransdale brusquely. “I said that we would have to watch out for him. I have done so all along. I never planned to bait him as I have the police commissioner. I wanted The Shadow to reveal himself — unwittingly — and he has.”
“But he may know—”
“He is ignorant, like the police. My game has been too well planned. Until now, Hazzlett, it has scarcely been interesting. The real game is just beginning. I want you to understand it perfectly, Hazzlett, because your aid will be important. Hence I shall trace the whole scheme from its inception.”
Hazzlett nodded. The valet was gaining confidence from his chief. His eyes were steady as they viewed Rowland Ransdale’s scoffing face. The expression on the mine owner’s lips was that contemptuous one that Elias Carthers had seen beneath the mask of The Black Falcon.
“Velvet Laffrey was a clever swindler,” began Ransdale, in a reminiscent tone. “He made his mistake, however, when he tried to fool me with a confidence game. You remember how I cornered him, Hazzlett. I knew him for a crook.”
The valet grinned at the recollection.
RANSDALE puffed his pipe and resumed his discourse.
“When Laffrey broke down and told me all about his past, I began to see how his connections with the underworld would serve me well. I can remember how pleased Velvet was when I began to unfold promises of great reward through supercrime.
“His part looked easy. He arranged the connection with Rowdy Kirshing and told the big shot of the funds that would come through The Black Falcon. Rowdy, in turn, lined up Terry Rukes and an undercover mob. That made the going easy.
“Then came our little episode with Velvet Laffrey,” Ransdale chuckled. “He was to be the goat, yet all the while the police would be looking for him, he would be out of the country. I offered him a hundred thousand dollars and told him that I would not start the kidnapping game until he was safely in South America.
“No wonder he gave me his finger prints! Those that we have on sheets of paper are valuable enough, for they can be used in letters and documents.
“But the doorknob impressions were the best. I dropped out to see Elias Carthers one night just to look that doorknob over. Carthers never suspected what I was doing, while I talked to him about my mining interests.”
“Velvet Laffrey didn’t suspect much either,” observed Hazzlett, grinning as he spoke. “He didn’t know where he was going after he put his prints on that doorknob. They showed up great in that lacquer stuff.”
“Velvet,” mused Ransdale, “was trusting enough to believe that he was actually going to South America. He planned to spend a last night with me in the Catskills. He never realized the danger in that lonely spot. He did not see me take the revolver from my desk drawer, when he was strolling toward the door. One shot in the back — that was all.”