Ransdale’s gun was in his hand when he unbarred the door to another cell. Hazzlett, at his master’s bidding, also produced a revolver. The guard rose in readiness. Rowland Ransdale was about to enter the room in which Lamont Cranston was a prisoner. The Black Falcon was taking no chances with The Shadow.
Ransdale opened the door and entered the room. Lamont Cranston, seated in a chair, looked up to view the visitor in quiet fashion. Ransdale’s smile held but a trace of its gloating. The Black Falcon advanced and extended the papers which he held.
“These may interest you, Cranston,” he announced.
Lamont Cranston appeared curious as he took the notations which Ransdale had obtained from Harry Vincent. The calm-faced millionaire read them one by one and then passed them back to Ransdale.
“Outside of the fact,” he declared quietly, “that I now know where I am and the conditions which surround me, I can see no value or meaning to these notations.”
“You do not recognize their source?” queried Ransdale.
“No.” Cranston’s tone was emphatic. “I am amazed, Ransdale, to learn that a man of your standing should deal in crime. To think that you, whom I first met at the Cobalt Club, could play the part of The Black Falcon!”
Ransdale’s eyes narrowed. His smile, though evil, showed a cunning that was not to be outdone. A question stopped upon his lips.
“I have chosen the role of crime,” he admitted sternly. “It pleases me, Cranston; moreover, it offers me tremendous return for the investment which I have made. You are one of my prisoners. The terms of your ransom will be fixed — like those of the others.
“In the meantime, you will remain guarded. I warn you that escape is impossible. New victims will be brought here; after that, I shall arrange for the delivery of all. Do not be impatient. The time will soon arrive when the police will find that it is hopeless to antagonize me.”
Cranston settled back in his chair. He seemed to take his imprisonment in philosophical fashion. His gaze showed no animosity. It was more a sign of reproval. Ransdale eyed his prisoner; then laughed scoffingly. He turned and went to the door; there he signaled Hazzlett, and the pair left the room, bolting the door behind them.
RANSDALE was silent as he led the way up to the second floor. There he took the chair behind his desk and tossed Harry Vincent’s notes into a drawer. He lighted his pipe and leaned back to enjoy the cool breeze that came from the half-opened French doors. After a short period of speculation, Ransdale noted a disappointed look on Hazzlett’s face.
“What is it, Hazzlett?” he inquired.
“The way you talked to Cranston,” replied the servant. “I thought you were going to lift the lid — to tell him that you knew he was The Shadow.”
“That, Hazzlett,” remarked Ransdale, “would have been poor policy. I tried him out, Hazzlett, when I asked him if he recognized the source of the memoranda which I gave him. You heard his emphatic denial. He followed it with an indignant protest against my ways of crime.”
“You’ve got the goods on him—”
“Certainly. I picked Lamont Cranston as The Shadow the night that he came to my apartment. I did not betray my discovery then. Why should I do so now? Cranston wants to cover up the fact that he is The Shadow. You saw the way that he pretended ignorance. Let him continue to think that I do not know his true identity.
“The Shadow, Hazzlett, is dangerous, even when a prisoner. At present, a waiting game is his best policy. So long as he thinks that he is known only as Lamont Cranston, he will make no trouble. The time is close at hand, Hazzlett, when I shall be ready to demand ransoms for my prisoners.”
“With the police still fighting you?”
“Their persistent efforts are to cease, Hazzlett.” Ransdale’s face wore a shrewd but ugly smile. “My last coup was a great one — the capture of Lamont Cranston and the elimination of The Shadow accomplished with a single swoop. My next move will be equally as cunning. I have gained a new inspiration.”
“You are going to abduct another man?”
“Yes. A warning will precede the act. The deed itself will force the law to listen to my mandates. Bring me the typewriter, Hazzlett. I shall make use of it.”
The servant produced a portable machine from the corner. He opened the case and placed the typewriter upon the desk. Rowland Ransdale opened a drawer and brought out a sheet of paper that bore the singular letterhead of The Black Falcon. He placed it in the machine. Slowly and with deliberate care, he typed a letter.
As he drew the sheet free and placed it on the desk, Ransdale opened another drawer. From this he produced a similar piece of stationery. He examined this sheet carefully by the light and his lips formed their gloating smile. Inserting the second piece of paper in the machine, Ransdale began a new typing process slower than the first.
At last, he laid the second letter beside the first and beckoned to Hazzlett. The servant approached to read the letters. He saw that both were identical — new messages to Police Commissioner Weston.
ROWLAND RANSDALE produced two falcon feathers. He examined them carefully, then thrust one through the first letter and the other through the second.
“Why two letters?” questioned Hazzlett.
“One would be enough,” admitted Ransdale, “but I do not wish to risk this one.” He indicated the second sheet which he had typed. “It is better that I should hold it myself. Then I can be sure of an effective conclusion to the plan which I am contemplating.”
Hazzlett looked puzzled. Ransdale enjoyed a smile at his servant’s bewilderment. He folded each letter. He addressed an envelope and inserted the first letter. Sealing the envelope, he passed it to Hazzlett. Then, from a desk drawer, he produced a stack of bundled bills. Taking a falcon feather from the little drawer where he kept these symbols, he thrust it through the paper wrapping that encircled the bank notes.
“Rowdy Kirshing,” remarked. Ransdale, “had a bodyguard named Pinkey Sardon. A capable fellow — ready for any crime — and admirably free from the toils of the law.”
Hazzlett nodded.
“Pinkey Sardon,” resumed Ransdale, “knew nothing about The Black Falcon, but it is probable that he wondered about Rowdy Kirshing’s source of mysterious wealth. With his salary of a thousand a week cut off, Pinkey must be anxious for new revenue.”
“Velvet Laffrey told us all about Pinkey—”
“Yes. I am recalling Velvet’s information. Also his description of Pinkey Sardon. The ex-bodyguard has aspirations to become a big shot. More than that, he has a penchant for taking part in crime himself always — something that Rowdy Kirshing was anxious to avoid.
“You are going to New York, Hazzlett. Take this money with you. Call Pinkey Sardon. Make it plain that you used to deal with Rowdy Kirshing. Say that you represent The Black Falcon and tell Pinkey that you have work for him to do. He must be in readiness, with a picked squad of mobsters at his call.”
“Pinkey’s hang-out is the Club Madrid?”
“Exactly. You can phone him there. The facts that you discuss with him will lead him to believe what every one else now suspects: that The Black Falcon is Velvet Laffrey. Pinkey will listen to your plans. Arrange to get this money to him — and tell him that another ten thousand will be his pay when he has served The Black Falcon’s bidding.”
“Ten grand in this bundle,” nodded Hazzlett, tapping the pile of cash. “Ten grand again when he has done the job.”
“Precisely. He must be ready at the Club Madrid. The Black Falcon will call him there and give him final orders. After you have made sure of Pinkey Sardon, post the letter to the police commissioner and return here at once. You may start for New York now, in the sedan.”