“In the meantime, I should like to have all the information you can give me regarding the so-called Theater Owners Cooperative Association.”
“My office is always open to you, Mr. Cranston,” returned Griscom. “You are a welcome visitor at any time.”
The door opened and a charming young woman entered. From her manner, one might have placed her age at thirty; her face appeared much younger — almost girlish.
She made a beautiful picture as she stood against the dim background of the doorway, exquisitely gowned. She was evidently returning from a party.
“Come in, Arline,” said Howard Griscom, as the girl hesitated. “Arline, you know Mr. Ballantyne. This gentleman is Mr. Cranston.”
The girl extended her hand. Lamont Cranston received the clasp, and his keen eyes stared steadily into hers.
Arline seemed solemn as she returned the gaze. There was something in those eyes that fascinated her. Their keenness made her think of eyes that she had seen long ago — the eyes of another man — a man whom she had tried to forget.
As Cranston released her hand, Arline crossed the room and kissed Howard Griscom. The theater owner smiled as he saw Cranston watching them from the door.
“My only daughter,” he said. “My only child, now. I had a son once. He died — some years ago. Arline is everything to me — now.” His smile faded for an instant; then it returned as he bade his friend good night.
As Lamont Cranston stepped from the Park Avenue apartment, he stood, momentarily, beneath the protecting awning. The fog and the drizzling rain formed an impenetrable cloak through which the lights of passing automobiles moved dim and forlorn.
Cranston was wearing a black cloak about his shoulders. A broad-brimmed hat was on his head. He drew down the hat and raised the collar of his cloak. Instantly, his face was obscured. He stepped from beneath the protecting awning, and in a few short strides he disappeared miraculously into the foggy blackness of the night.
From the spot where he had vanished came a strange sound — a low, creepy laugh, that seemed to swirl amidst the fog. It was a strange, mirthless laugh — a sinister laugh that seemed to express an understanding of facts that were unknown.
The doorman shuddered as he stood at the open doorway in front of the apartment house.
He had heard the laugh of The Shadow!
CHAPTER VIII
AT THE CLUB DRURY
THE Club Drury was a pretentious establishment that was frequented by those who loved bright lights and late hours.
It was not only the meeting place of racketeers and high-class gangsters; it was also a spot where pleasure seekers sought diversion that was different from the more established amusement places that surrounded Times Square.
Cliff Marsland had entered the Club Drury with a feeling of confidence. He was sure that his identity was still undisclosed; that no one had seen him leave Larchmont Court and follow Ernie Shires.
Here, in the dimly lighted night club, Cliff was doubly secure. There was little chance that he would be observed by any one. The place was crowded, and all the persons present were interested in their own companions.
The tables in the Club Drury were grouped around the dance floor in the center. An entertainment was on when Cliff entered.
Cliff made his way among the tables to the far side of the big room, glancing right and left as he went. He was looking for Ernie Shires, but could see no sign of the gangster.
Cliff sat at a table. He waited until the girl had finished her dance. The spotlight faded, and the side lights were turned on. The diners began to crowd the dance floor. Cliff had a better opportunity to look for Ernie Shires.
Again, he had no success.
Had Shires purposely given the wrong address? It was possible. He might have changed his orders after he had rolled away in the taxicab.
A waiter approached and asked for Cliff’s order. Cliff looked at the menu. He had a sudden thought.
If Ernie Shires had an appointment in this place, it would not be held in the midst of a large, crowded room!
“This place is too noisy for me,” Cliff said to the waiter. “Aren’t there any smaller dining rooms, where it’s quiet?”
“Yes, sir,” said the waiter, “but they are usually reserved in advance — by private parties—”
“Where are they?” demanded Cliff.
The waiter pointed over his shoulder. Cliff saw a doorway draped with side curtains.
“I’m going over there,” said Cliff, rising from the table. “I guess I can find an empty room.”
The waiter followed him, protesting:
“There may be an empty one, sir,” he objected, “but we’ve got to keep them for parties. You’ll have to take it up with the manager sir—”
They had reached the curtained doorway. It led into a corridor that ran parallel with the doorway. There was a row of doors on the other side. Cliff stopped and thrust a crisp ten-dollar bill into the waiter’s hand.
“I want to be quiet, understand?” he said. “Fix me up in one of these rooms. I won’t be here all night. If anybody comes along that has the room reserved, I can get out. Understand?”
The waiter accepted the tip with a nod. He led Cliff down the corridor and stopped at a half-open door. He turned on a light.
Cliff entered the room, which had a table set for six people. The waiter brought him a menu card from a serving table in the corner.
“I belong out in the big room, sir,” he said. “I’ll fix it with the waiter that looks after this room. You may have to wait a little while.”
“That’s all right,” answered Cliff.
AS soon as the waiter was gone, Cliff made a quick inspection of the room. There were two doors, each on an opposite wall. Their purpose was obvious. They led into the adjoining private rooms. Thus large parties could have connecting rooms.
It was probable that the arrangement existed all along the corridor. Cliff tried each door cautiously and found that both were locked. He assumed that they were kept that way except when otherwise desired. Each door had a large keyhole.
There was no use trying to unlock the doors for the present. It would first be advisable to find out where Ernie Shires was located — if the man was actually at the Club Drury. Cliff decided to reconnoiter. He went out into the corridor, closing the door behind him.
The light was dim; no one was in sight. Cliff moved along the corridor, finding nothing but half-open doors with dark rooms until he reached the end. There he encountered a closed door. He stopped to listen. He fancied that he heard the murmur of voices. At least, he was sure that the room was occupied.
Cliff entered the adjoining room. He did not turn on the light. He groped through the darkness to the door that led into the occupied room. He could hear the murmur plainly, now, but could not distinguish any words.
It was idle to wait in the darkness and it was foolish to attempt to open the door. Cliff had no keys or other implements; although he was carrying an automatic. Any noise at the door would attract attention.
Also, the waiter would soon be coming to the room that he had left. It would be wise to get back. Cliff returned along the corridor.
Seated at the large table, he decided that there was only one course: to question the waiter when he arrived. Money and artful persuasion might make the man talk.
While Cliff was settling upon such a plan, the door opened. A waiter entered. The man was thin and stoop-shouldered. His face was dull, and his features difficult to see, as the room was lighted only dimly.
Cliff scanned the menu as the man approached. For a moment the man was beside him; then Cliff looked up to see him going back to the door. The waiter shut the door.
Suspecting something, Cliff began to rise from his chair. The waiter turned in his direction, and came hurriedly forward, raising his hand to his lips for silence.