Howard Griscom arose. He knew from Wilberton’s manner that the interview was ended. He and Cranston said good-by to the financier. They left the building and rode in a cab to Griscom’s office.
“I am glad you were with me, Cranston,” said Griscom soberly. “The condition is much more serious than I mentioned to Wilberton. Vandals have broken into two of our theaters, and have wreaked much damage.
“I don’t like to give in, but I must think of those whose interests are at stake. If Ballantyne—”
Cranston was staring straight ahead, apparently deep in thought. As Griscom ended his sentence abruptly, Cranston spoke as though in meditation.
“Strange fellow, isn’t he?” he said.
“Who? Ballantyne?”
“No.”
“Wilberton?”
“No. Crowley.”
“Wilberton’s secretary?” responded Griscom. “Yes. He has been with Wilberton many years. His confidential secretary, you know.”
“Yes; that very fact makes me wonder” — a vague, questioning smile appeared upon Cranston’s rigid lips — “wonder why Wilberton sent him away.
“It was all right for Crowley to be there long enough to understand everything that we were discussing. After he had gone, Wilberton said nothing that Crowley had not heard.”
Howard Griscom nodded. The matter seemed very trivial to him. So much was at stake that it annoyed him to hear Cranston refer to such unimportant matters. The cab stopped near the Paladrome Theater. The men stepped out.
“Will you come up to the office?” asked Griscom. “I am going out to lunch in a few minutes.”
“Thank you. I have an appointment.” Lamont Cranston shook hands with Howard Griscom.
When the theater owner had gone, Cranston stood on the sidewalk, idly watching the passing automobiles that crowded the vicinity of Times Square.
Suddenly, his eyes became keen. He turned into a drug store, consulted a phone book, and returned to the street. He hailed a passing taxi.
“Turin Cafe,” he said. “Fourteenth Street, west of Sixth Avenue.”
FIFTEEN MINUTES later, Lamont Cranston entered the little Italian restaurant. There were not many people in the place. He studied various tables, and finally noted one in a far corner. He went to the table and sat down, after studying the position of the chairs.
Keen and observant, Cranston had quickly decided that this must be the very chair that Tony Peretti had been wont to occupy.
The waiter came, and Cranston gave his order. He sat with folded arms, as though considering a great problem. His keen eyes centered first in one place; then in another. At last they were focused upon the table, with its square glass top fitted above a dark cloth material.
Lamont Cranston drew an envelope from his pocket. He inserted a corner of the envelope between the glass top and the table. The envelope slid into the thin space. Holding its only projecting corner, Cranston moved the envelope back and forth along the edge of the table.
As if by magic, written words appeared upon the envelope!
Some one had written in pencil upon the glass top of the table. The words were totally invisible against the dark surface beneath until the presence of the white paper revealed them.
The words looked as though they were on the envelope; actually they were the fraction of an inch above it.
“Saturday. Three o’clock. Brantwell’s. Forty-second Street.”
This was the message Lamont Cranston read. He removed the envelope from beneath the glass and thrust it in his pocket. He was thoughtful for a minute; he did not appear to notice the waiter when the man brought a plate of spaghetti.
Lamont Cranston laughed softly, and his repressed mirth had an eerie sound. He took a bill from his pocket and laid it beside the check that the waiter had placed on the table. He arose and walked from the restaurant.
He strode down the street, toward the avenue. As he went along, he laughed again.
His laugh was low and inaudible a few feet away; yet it still possessed that chilling tone.
It was strangely like the laugh of The Shadow!
CHAPTER XV
CRANSTON ACTS
HOWARD GRISCOM and Lamont Cranston had visited Stanley Wilberton before noon on Friday. Late Saturday morning, approximately twenty-four hours later, Griscom was surprised when Cranston again paid him a visit.
“I suppose you leave here at noon,” remarked Cranston, when he had seated himself in the theater owner’s private office.
“Not often,” replied Griscom. “Saturday is usually very busy. I expect to be here all afternoon. Will you accept that deferred invitation to lunch?”
“I shall be glad to do so.”
Cranston sat looking from the window. Griscom’s office was on the third floor of the Paladrome Building. It commanded a view of Forty-second Street toward Times Square.
Across the street, near the corner, was a store that bore the sign “Brantwell’s.” It was one of a chain of Manhattan drug stores.
Lamont Cranston noticed the store; he also watched the passing throngs with curious eyes. He turned to Griscom, and seeing that the theater owner was not engaged for the moment, he remarked:
“You have motion-picture photographers available, I suppose?”
“I can get a camera man in fifteen minutes,” replied Griscom.
“This would make a very interesting picture,” remarked Cranston, pointing from the window. “Saturday afternoon at Times Square.
“Hundreds — thousands of people, each moving with some different thought in mind. A great crowd, all engaged with their own thoughts, oblivious of those who are watching them.”
“You’d like a picture of it?” asked Griscom, with a smile. “Suppose that I obtain a camera man after lunch.”
“Excellent,” said Cranston.
“I’m going to be here evenings as well as afternoons,” said Griscom. “You know, Cranston, the Paladrome is our greatest theater. It is in the heart of New York.
“I am apprehensive — I have been so since yesterday. The very fact that we are worrying about the prestige of the Paladrome makes me believe that the racketeers may have an eye on it also.”
“What are you doing to offset them?” Cranston asked.
“What can I do? We have detectives in the lobby. We are watching suspicious characters. Ballantyne is watching, too. He is downstairs in the theater office.
“He is in and out of the Paladrome all the time. Nevertheless, we cannot watch every patron who enters the theater. That would be impossible.”
Griscom received a telephone call that he had been expecting. He and Cranston went out to lunch.
IT was after two o’clock when they passed the entrance to the Paladrome Theater on their way back to Griscom’s office. The theater owner pointed out two detectives in the lobby.
“They’re watching every one who comes in,” he said. “But at best, it’s only a makeshift. We may have a chance to apprehend a trouble-maker after the damage is done; hardly before.
“I’m worried, Cranston. Something is going to strike; and we’ll be helpless.”
In the office, Griscom recalled his promise to Cranston. He called up a camera man, and the photographer said that he would be over within fifteen minutes.
The man arrived at the time specified. Griscom introduced him as Bud Sherman. Cranston pointed out the panoramic view of central New York.
“Suppose we wait a while,” he suggested. “The Saturday-afternoon crowd is increasing. Set your camera to take in a diagonal view of the street, so we can get the direction from which the crowd is coming. About there” — Cranston pointed diagonally across the busy thoroughfare — “where that drug store is located.”
“Brantwell’s?” questioned Sherman.
“Yes.”