While Bud Sherman was setting up the camera, Arline Griscom entered the office. The girl smiled pleasantly at Lamont Cranston, who bowed in return. She spoke to her father; then she noticed the camera, and asked why it was there.
“Mr. Cranston thought a picture of Times Square would be interesting,” explained Griscom, with an amused look on his face, “so I provided the camera man.”
Cranston had turned to the window.
“The throngs are increasing,” he remarked. “There seem to be a great many people coming toward the theater. I would suggest, Mr. Griscom, that you advise the men in the lobby to be very alert. Saturday afternoon is a time to expect trouble.”
“What is the matter, daddy?” questioned Arline.
“Nothing, dear,” replied Griscom. “I am going down to the theater office. Come along with me. It is nearly three o’clock. The feature picture starts in fifteen minutes.”
As Griscom and his daughter left the office, Cranston spoke to Sherman.
“Shoot,” he said. “There’s a good crowd, now.”
Sherman obeyed in businesslike fashion. He started the mechanism of the camera, which was trained through the open window. His eyes were roving along the street. He did not notice what Lamont Cranston was observing.
Within a few seconds after the camera began to make its record, a short man in a black coat stopped in front of Brantwell’s window and began an idle inspection of the display that was on exhibit. The man’s back was turned toward the street. His face was not visible.
STILL watching the man who had arrived, Cranston went to the telephone on the table near the window. He called a number. It was evidently near by, for the exchange was the same as the one listed on Griscom’s telephone.
“Hello,” said Cranston. “This is Mr. Cranston. Has the man I expected arrived in my office? He’s there now?” He paused an instant, then added: “I don’t follow you… Oh, yes; tell him to wait. I’ll stop over to see him. I’ll be there shortly; after I see Mr. Griscom in the theater lobby.”
Bud Sherman heard the conversation and paid no attention to it. He did not notice the peculiar emphasis that the speaker had placed on certain words.
“Man there now. Follow him. Stop him in the theater lobby.”
That was what Lamont Cranston had told the listener at the other end of the telephone.
All the while, the speaker kept his eyes on the window across the street, where the idler was standing motionless, gazing at the display, unconscious of the fact that he was within the range of a motion-picture camera.
Cranston was deliberately calling another number — also the same exchange. He received an answer, and began an ordinary conversation that continued for about a minute. Then, again, his words took on a peculiar emphasis.
“I’ll see you at the meeting; I’m taking Harry’s place. Yes, I’ll go on Monday afternoon. It will be my second trip there. Good-by, old man.”
The hidden message was: “Meeting taking place. Go after second man.”
As Cranston delivered it, smoothly and effectively, his words were timed with an event that was occurring across the street.
Another man had swung out of the crowd. The first sign that marked him as different from the other passers was the fact that he also turned to look in Brantwell’s window, so that only his back was visible.
He stood there, close behind the first man, who could not see him. His hand slipped in the pocket of his blue overcoat. He brought forth a small object.
Stepping forward, as though to avoid persons who were crowding him, he let his hand rest against the pocket of the black overcoat that the first man was wearing.
The blue-clad man moved away immediately. His hand was empty. Lamont Cranston could see his face, but even those keen watching eyes could not distinguish the features clearly at so great a distance.
Cranston’s gaze returned to the first man, who was still looking in the window. The fellow began to shift restlessly; then he, too, sauntered away. Cranston caught a glimpse of a dark-visaged countenance.
Both men were lost in the crowd. Lamont Cranston was staring indifferently from the window. The camera man spoke to him.
“Just about the end of the reel,” he remarked. “Do you want me to take another shot?”
“That’s sufficient,” said Cranston.
When the camera man had gone, Cranston remained by the window. He acted as though he might be expecting some unusual news.
Fifteen minutes passed. The telephone rang. Cranston answered it. He heard the excited voice of Griscom.
“That you, Cranston? Can you come down to the theater office? The detectives stopped two men who were causing a disturbance in the lobby! They brought them into the office! Ballantyne is talking to the men now! I should like to have you see them!”
CRANSTON went down in the elevator. Between the entrance to the office building and the theater itself was a cigar store. He stopped there and purchased several packages of cigarettes — each of a different popular brand. He placed them in various pockets.
He went on to the lobby of the theater and gave his name to the doorman. An usher led him to the office.
When Cranston entered, he found George Ballantyne quizzing two men who sat before him. Ballantyne was speaking to one in particular, a quiet, well-dressed young man, who seemed quite at ease.
“You say your name is Clyde Burke,” said Ballantyne. “What do you do?”
“I was formerly a newspaper reporter,” replied the young man. “At present I conduct a clipping bureau and engage in free-lance journalism. This little occurrence to-day is quite unusual. It might make a good newspaper story for—”
“Mr. Burke,” interrupted Ballantyne, in a worried tone, “we are not trying to put you to any inconvenience. We are merely asking you to cooperate with us.
“There have been some er — disturbances in our theaters. We are watching all who enter. You had an encounter with this man in the lobby—”
“I did,” interposed Burke. “I jostled him accidentally. He became angry. I saw his hand go to his pocket. I became excited, thinking that he might be drawing a gun. I grabbed him.
“Then these men of yours” — he pointed to two detectives who stood solemnly by — “took hold of us and brought us here.”
“Would you mind if we searched your pockets, Mr. Burke?”
“Not in the least.” Burke emptied the contents of his pockets on the desk, and a detective followed with a search. Nothing suspicious came to view. Burke returned the articles to his pockets.
Ballantyne turned to the other man. This individual was short in stature, and wore a cheap black overcoat. His face was sullen and swarthy. In viewing it, Ballantyne could hardly blame Burke for having been suspicious of the man.
“What’s your name?” questioned Ballantyne.
“Marschik,” was the reply. “Steve Marschik.”
“What’s your story?”
“This fellow” — Marschik pointed to Burke — “ran into me outside of here. I wasn’t doing nothing. I thought he was crazy. Sure thing I did.
“It ain’t right, you know, accusing me of trying to put up a fight with him. I’m out of work — nothing to do — got a little money. I want to see the pictures — that’s all.”
He began to empty his pockets. A few envelopes and letters, a pocket comb, a package of cigarettes. He laid the objects on the table. A detective ran through the man’s pockets.
Lamont Cranston had stepped forward. He glanced casually at the articles on the desk. He picked them up carelessly and put them back again.
“All right,” grunted the detective.
Marschik replaced his few belongings. Both he and Burke appeared a bit disgruntled.
Ballantyne smoothed matters.
“Neither of you paid admission,” he said. “You are quite welcome to see the show as our guests. You understand, gentlemen, that this disturbance was caused by yourselves, and that we merely requested your presence here.”