Moreover, Burbank had gained sufficient to lay suspicion upon Rowland Ransdale. Coupled with Harry’s previous information, notes of specific value had been obtained.
But of what avail could all this information be? Who was to take up The Shadow’s work now that Lamont Cranston, like Harry Vincent, was helpless in The Black Falcon’s clutching talons?
CHAPTER XVII
THE FINAL SCHEME
NEARLY twenty-four hours had elapsed since Lamont Cranston and Harry Vincent had been carried prisoners in Rowland Ransdale’s sedan. The plotting criminal who called himself The Black Falcon was seated in a lighted room on the second floor of his stone-walled abode in the Catskills.
Behind Ransdale were half-opened French windows that showed a projecting roof toward the darkness at the rear of the clearing. Ransdale, leaning back in a chair behind a desk, was puffing at his pipe. His face showed its evil gloat. The Black Falcon, unmasked, had no cause to hide his identity here.
The door opened and Hazzlett entered. The pretended valet who served as The Black Falcon’s chief henchman was grinning as he crossed the room. He slapped a New York newspaper on the desk. Ransdale picked up the sheet and scanned the headlines.
“Good!” he snarled. “That’s the ticket. Weston has come out with it. Announcing that the police have uncovered the identity of The Black Falcon.”
“Name and all,” returned Hazzlett. “Velvet Laffrey is the guy they’re after.”
“I knew that sheet of paper I left on Cranston’s desk would clinch it,” asserted, Ransdale. “I used the one on which Velvet’s impressions were barely noticeable. A subtle touch like that, Hazzlett, is just what a criminal needs to use.”
Leaning back in his chair, Ransdale emitted a harsh chuckle. He puffed speculatively at his pipe, blew a few smoke rings, and indulged in comment for Hazzlett’s benefit.
“The way is clear,” decided the supercrook. “Lamont Cranston is good for as big a ransom as Hubert Apprison and Elias Carthers. He is The Shadow — and that makes it all the sweeter. I can deliver him for cash along with the others.”
“But you’re taking chances, with him being The Shadow.”
“Why? You know the game, Hazzlett. I can’t cover up who I am, after I turn these prisoners back. The truth will come out then. But you can be sure that I shall be so far away they can never hope to find me.
“Cash and plenty of it. No delivery of the prisoners. Let them cool as long as their friends hold out. Years if necessary. My terms will be accepted. This wholesale work is something so big that people are bound to give up in despair.
“We aren’t through yet, though, Hazzlett. Weston is still after The Black Falcon. Until the police give up, I’ll keep on, while they follow their hopeless, blind trail. Rowland Ransdale is safe. Velvet Laffrey is the man they’re after.”
Ransdale pounded the desk as he spoke; then, with an evil leer, he arose. He strolled across the room toward the door and motioned to Hazzlett to follow him.
“We’re going down to talk with the new prisoner,” declared Ransdale. “I want you to be there. It will be interesting.”
THE man who called himself The Black Falcon proceeded downstairs with Hazzlett at his heels. He passed through an archway on the ground floor and descended into a large basement. On all sides were heavy, barred doors. The place constituted a cellroom. One of Ransdale’s henchmen, a husky, dark-faced fellow, was standing on guard.
“Vincent?” questioned Ransdale.
“In there,” indicated the guard.
Ransdale drew a revolver from his pocket. With sweeping action, he unbarred the door, opened it and stepped into a square, windowless room that was illuminated by a single light.
The place was stone-walled. Harry Vincent was seated on a chair beside a cot. Ransdale motioned to Hazzlett to close the door.
“Comfortable?” questioned Ransdale.
“All right,” returned Harry, in response to the note of sarcasm.
“I trust,” stated Ransdale, in an easy tone, “that you appreciate the courtesy that I am showing you. It is not my policy to take unprofitable prisoners. However, you may prove useful later on, because of your connections.”
With that, Ransdale produced a sheaf of papers from his pocket. Harry recognized them as the memos that he had not had an opportunity to destroy.
“Evidently,” declared Ransdale, “you were keeping a close check-up on my actions. From these notes, however, I can see that you were probably apprehensive for my safety. I learned your name, Vincent, through papers in your pocket; and I also divined your purpose.
“You are working — so I take it — for a mysterious employer known as The Shadow. He is a weird personage who battles crime. Because I was once attacked, presumably by The Black Falcon, you were sent here to watch what might occur.”
Ransdale eyed Harry as though he expected a comment. The Shadow’s agent made none. Ransdale’s smile was not unpleasant. The criminal seemed to be enjoying himself.
“You did your duty well,” he commended. “In fact, you handled it up to a point where you finally began to expose the truth about The Black Falcon. Here is a blank piece of paper. Will you kindly jot down the remainder of your experience up to the present moment?”
Harry was puzzled. He could not, however, see any reason to refuse Ransdale’s request. He took the sheet of paper and briefly listed remarks concerning his capture. Ransdale bowed as he received the paper.
“Thank you,” he said. “I shall see to it that your complete notes reach The Shadow himself. You have served him well. I may have occasion to use you later. Perhaps, in return for my kindness in delivering your memoranda, The Shadow may place you at my disposal when I require your services.”
The insidious tone of Ransdale’s remark left Harry Vincent stupefied. As his captor left the cell, followed by Hazzlett, Harry began to grasp the meaning.
Ransdale had promised to deliver these notes to The Shadow. How? Dimly, Harry realized the only possible answer. The Shadow — like Harry — must be a prisoner in the hands of the villain whom Harry now knew to be The Black Falcon!
ROWLAND RANSDALE, when he had closed the door through which he had left Harry’s room, turned immediately toward Hazzlett. He flourished the sheaf of papers and made a significant gesture.
“This chap may prove useful,” he announced. “Later on, when we are ready to deliver the prisoners for ransom, a go-between may be necessary. Vincent has evidently been a capable agent for The Shadow. He can serve us as well.”
“He might try to give the game away.”
“With his master as our prisoner? Not a chance of it, Hazzlett. I’ll tell you something, though” — Ransdale’s expression was a wise one — “regarding this man Vincent. He does not know The Shadow’s true identity.”
“You mean that he doesn’t know that Cranston is The Shadow?”
“He is ignorant of that fact. Did you see how blank he was when I told him that I intended to deliver his messages to The Shadow? That was the test, Hazzlett.”
“But Vincent has been working for The Shadow—”
“Certainly; and that is a proof of The Shadow’s cleverness. Even his agents have been in the dark about his true personality. The Shadow has been too wise to trust his complete secrets to any one.”
“Then how will Vincent know after you have forced The Shadow to comply with your plans?”
“There must be some form of recognition between them. That will come later, Hazzlett. For the present, I shall play a very subtle game. Come. We shall interview our prize prisoner.”