The Shadow’s agent held a high sense of the responsibility which involved upon him in assuring the protection of Rowland Ransdale. The Black Falcon was a menace who must be offset at any cost.
Had Harry Vincent known the true situation that lay ahead, his determination would have been tempered with amazement. As yet, however, Harry had gained no inkling of the truth. The instructions from The Shadow, though they had mentioned the threat of The Black Falcon, had shown no knowledge of the insidious facts that lay beneath the unruffled surface of Rowland Ransdale’s affairs.
Harry Vincent was completely ignorant of the fact that Rowland Ransdale was The Black Falcon himself!
CHAPTER XV
THE FALCON SWOOPS
A LULL had followed The Black Falcon’s attack at Rowland Ransdale’s. In the days since the time when the mine owner and his valet had shot down the invading mobsters under Terry Rukes, there had been no new demonstration of The Black Falcon’s power.
Speculation, however, was still rife on the fate of Hubert Apprison and Elias Carthers. It was obvious that The Black Falcon must be holding both millionaires as prisoners; yet there had been no effort on the part of the abductor to demand ransoms.
The newspapers had taken the repulsion of The Black Falcon as a sign that the supercrook had lost his nerve. News columns had been waiting more activity before their space would be devoted to new blasts concerning The Black Falcon. During this period of relief, the police were busy. Public fear of The Black Falcon had waned.
Of the two classes that had felt most interest in The Black Falcon’s doings, one had subsided. That was the underworld. The dragnet and other efforts of the police had been accepted as mere routine. The fact that The Black Falcon had lost his mob — represented by Terry Rukes and gangsters — had produced the feeling that The Black Falcon was crippled.
Among the upper crust, however, tension still persisted. Whatever The Black Falcon’s situation, the man of crime still held two victims; and, from the fact that he had invaded Rowland Ransdale’s apartment, it was still possible that he fostered his plans of wholesale abduction.
Every place where the elite gathered, the topic of The Black Falcon was a pressing one; and such proved to be the case among a group of persons assembled in the sumptuous home of Lamont Cranston.
Seated in a luxurious living room, half a dozen men in evening clothes were discussing the activities of the uncaptured kidnaper.
“It’s good to be outside of New York City,” admitted one gentleman, in a rueful tone. “I have great confidence in the police; but I must honestly state that I expect The Black Falcon to bob up everywhere I go.”
“We’re not far from New York now,” interposed another speaker. “This part of Jersey is a portion of greater New York — just as much as Long Island.”
“Why mention that?” quizzed a third man. “Are you trying to make us all feel uneasy? How do you feel, Cranston, living out here?”
LAMONT CRANSTON, seated in an armchair, indulged in a quiet smile. There was something lackadaisical about the globe-trotting millionaire. Perhaps it was the comfortable atmosphere of his home.
“I’m keeping away from Manhattan,” observed Cranston, in a quiet tone. “Not entirely through fear of encountering The Black Falcon, although I must admit that has something to do with it, but chiefly through desire for a rest.”
“From your last trip?”
“Yes. I stopped off in Florida after my return from the jungles of the Amazon. Then I received telegrams referring to matters that meant business pressure. That is why I came home. Everything seemed to clear up automatically upon my return, so I have kept away from New York during the past week.”
“I should think,” remarked a guest, “that you would relish an encounter with some one like The Black Falcon. You are a big-game hunter, Cranston.”
“Jungle hunting and man hunting are different occupations,” returned the millionaire. “There are great risks attendant upon elephant hunts, for instance; but those come under the head of sports. I am a sportsman, not a representative of the law. I do not care to embroil myself with criminals.”
“Maybe this Black Falcon business has subsided,” declared a guest. “The criminal depended upon a crowd of ruffians. They were killed when they tried to capture Rowland Ransdale. Since then, The Black Falcon has been a nonentity.”
“The police,” observed another man, in a wise tone, “are on the trail of The Black Falcon — at least, so I am informed. They know his identity, but have not made it public. He will run tremendous risks coming into New York.”
“They have clews?” inquired a guest.
“So I understand,” asserted the informant. “Commissioner Weston is a competent official. What is more, he has this case under his own supervision. He, himself, is one of the Four Hundred. It is good to have a man of his caliber in charge. Most meritorious, in my opinion—”
The conversation stopped as a servant entered the living room and approached Lament Cranston.
“What is it, Richards?” questioned the millionaire.
“A telephone call, sir,” answered the servant. “Police Commissioner Weston is on the wire—”
A gasp came from the listeners. This was a most unexpected announcement. Buzzing words began; then stopped as Cranston arose and faced his guests with an easy smile.
“I am acquainted with the commissioner,” he remarked. “This is probably a mere coincidence. However, since our talk has turned to The Black Falcon, I shall ask Commissioner Weston if any new developments have occurred.”
With that, Cranston strolled from the living room. The guests watched him cross the hall to a room that was opposite at a distant angle. It was Cranston’s private smoking room, where the downstairs telephone was located.
CRANSTON passed by a side door that led from the house and entered the smoking room. He closed the door behind him. The desk telephone was off its cradle. Cranston picked up the instrument and spoke across the wire.
“Commissioner Weston?” he inquired in his calm tone. “Yes, this is Lamont Cranston… What’s that?… In answer to my call?… You must be mistaken, commissioner… Let me get this exactly. You say that you received a call five minutes ago… A call from here… My home… A servant saying I wished to speak with you… Then the connection was cut off.
“I don’t understand it, commissioner… I can question my servant… What’s that? The Black Falcon?… I don’t quite understand… You say that you thought I might have some theory regarding him? I don’t quite follow you, inspector.
“Because of the matter on Long Island?… You mean the abduction of Elias Carthers… You have kept quiet regarding my action, you say… That sounds a bit puzzling, commissioner. I don’t see why you should be worried on my account… Yes… I feel quite competent of caring for my own safety…”
Cranston ceased speaking of a sudden. The long fingers of his right hand had been toying with a sheet of paper that was lying beneath the telephone standard. Drawing the paper forth as he spoke, Cranston found himself staring at a black object thrust through the center of the white sheet. It was a long feather, dyed black.
“One moment, commissioner.” Cranston’s voice became tense but steady. “I have just found something that will interest you… Here, on my desk. A sheet of paper… Blank, but with a mysterious symbol… A black feather… Yes, it appears to be the feather of a falcon…”
A chuckle came from across the table. Lamont Cranston looked up. He was staring squarely into a pair of eyes that peered through a black mask. A gleaming revolver bulged directly in front of the millionaire’s nose. An opened door to a passage beyond the study was indication of where the intruder had been stationed.