Lamont Cranston had no opportunity to move. One hand was holding the double-ended telephone. The other was on the desk. The Black Falcon held his victim helpless.
Reaching out with his left hand, The Black Falcon plucked the telephone from Cranston’s unresisting grasp. Coldly — in a voice that veiled the accustomed tones of Rowland Ransdale — The Black Falcon spoke to the police commissioner; but all the while his evil gaze and his covering revolver were fixed on Cranston across the table from him.
“Good evening, Mr. Commissioner,” snarled the supercrook. “This is The Black Falcon… In person… It was I who called your home… From this room.
“I must apologize” — The Black Falcon was chuckling gleefully — “for sending you no letter. My reason was twofold. First, because I failed with my last threat and am making amends for it now. Second, because I am outside of your jurisdiction.
“The fault is not mine. You can blame it on Mr. Cranston. I have been waiting for him to come to the Cobalt Club. Since he has not done so, I have visited his home instead.”
The Black Falcon’s evil lips held a twisted smile while sputtered protests came over the wire. Then the snarling voice recurred with a tone of finality.
“Cranston is going with me,” declared The Black Falcon. “The token which I left him — the feather through the sheet of paper — will remain here as proof of his veracity—”
With that, The Black Falcon clamped the telephone on the hook. As he had done with Elias Carthers, so did he do with Lamont Cranston. He poked the revolver forward and ordered the millionaire to rise.
Cranston’s face was calm. Half smiling, the millionaire obeyed the injunction. Cranston seemed to regard this episode as a pleasant adventure; but he made no effort to balk his enemy. Opportunity for resistance was impossible.
“Arms up — turn around—”
Cranston followed the order. The Black Falcon, shoving his revolver into the small of Cranston’s back, forced his prisoner toward the door. With a deft maneuver, The Black Falcon opened the barrier without losing his hold over the millionaire.
As Cranston walked helplessly into the hallway, The Black Falcon guided him to the right, toward the door that led outside. The door opened as the two arrived. A man was standing on the outer steps.
“Face around!” ordered The Black Falcon, in a snarling tone. “Arms behind you!”
Cranston obeyed mechanically. Handcuffs clicked as the waiting man snapped them to the millionaire’s wrists. The Black Falcon’s aid thrust his own gun into the small of Cranston’s back. With his free hand, he gripped Cranston’s shoulder and yanked the prisoner out into the night.
THE BLACK FALCON wheeled. The sound of his voice had reached the living room. Men were stepping forth into the hall. They stopped in consternation as they saw the masked enemy who faced them. The Black Falcon snarled a warning as he raised his revolver. Like frightened hares, the guests scurried for the cover of the living room.
Scoffing, The Black Falcon fired shots across the hallway. Three roaring reports echoed through Cranston’s mansion. Then, his unaimed threat delivered, The Black Falcon sprang through the open door and pulled it shut with a resounding slam.
It was Richards who came to action. The servant had gone upstairs after notifying Cranston that Weston was on the wire. The sound of the shots brought him scurrying down. The cries of the guests told him what had happened.
Leaping to a hall closet, Richards found a revolver and hurried to the door through which Cranston had been taken. As the servant opened the door, he heard the sound of a car pulling away from the drive beyond.
Richards fired futile shots. Answering spurts of flame sent bullets spattering close to the spot where the faithful servant stood. Then, with roaring motor, the car took a curve in the driveway and was gone.
Again, The Black Falcon had scored a new triumph. From a house where guests were present, he had swept away another victim. Lamont Cranston, multimillionaire friend of Police Commissioner Weston, had been abducted from his home.
With daring, the supercrook had talked over the wire to the police commissioner, during the actual moments when his crime had begun. Another challenge from The Black Falcon to the law!
More than that, however, The Black Falcon’s action was a stroke that showed a superhuman boldness. His abduction of Lamont Cranston was not only a step in his plans for wholesale kidnapping; it was an expression of his contempt for the awesome being whom all the underworld dreaded.
Rowland Ransdale — in his own character — had identified Lament Cranston as the enemy whom he sought. Rowland Ransdale, as The Black Falcon, had kidnapped Lamont Cranston.
In catching Cranston unaware, the master crook had gained his double triumph. Riding free with Hazzlett at the wheel of the car in which they had departed, The Black Falcon was snarling his elation.
Tonight, when he bestowed Cranston among his other prisoners, The Black Falcon would not only have a captive worth a mammoth ransom; in his toils would be the only foeman who might have thwarted his evil schemes.
Rowland Ransdale — The Black Falcon — was gloating with the surety that The Shadow was in his power!
CHAPTER XVI
THE LAST REPORT
FAR out in the wilds of the Catskills, a young man was seated in a coupe parked beneath the branches of trees that overhung a rough dirt road. It was Harry Vincent. By the dome light of the car, The Shadow’s agent was studying sheets of penciled notations.
Harry had kept these memos at his hotel. He had sent copies of them to Rutledge Mann. He had brought them along with him tonight, in case there would be need for reference if he communicated with Burbank.
Harry went over the brief pages one by one. They were filled with terse information that Harry checked. First was the location of Rowland Ransdale’s house, a large, stone-walled building that was stationed in a clearing fifteen miles from the town of Cuthbury.
Harry had specified the size of the clearing. It measured less than fifty yards in greatest depth. About half of that distance — some sixty feet — formed a space in back of Ransdale’s house.
The place was surrounded with heavy barbed wire. Harry had made his way past that obstacle and had viewed the clearing, close at hand. He had given a completely defined description of the open space that was surrounded by huge, overshadowing trees.
Also, in his observations, Harry had estimated that there were seven men in Ransdale’s employ. He had seen these fellows on the premises. All were hard individuals. Rowland Ransdale was well protected.
In all the surrounding terrain, Harry had found no other clearings of importance, although he had driven his coupe over miles and miles of stony dirt roads. He had found a few old houses in the woods.
It was not until he had reached a spot some fourteen miles from Ransdale’s — in the direction opposite the town of Cuthbury — that Harry had found a sizable open space. This appeared to be a pasture land, of several acres in extent, well surrounded by barbed wire. Harry had not investigated it except by peering from the road.
Each afternoon, Harry had kept late vigil from a hidden spot beyond the road that ran in front of Rowland Ransdale’s secluded estate. Having learned essential facts, it was Harry’s duty to make sure that Ransdale remained within the shelter of his protected abode; and also to watch for prowlers.
Such had been a thankless task until this evening. Then, just after nightfall. Harry had seen the lights of a sedan as they swept from the unclosed gate that was in front of the obscure house.