“It’s all right with me,” said Burke.
“All right,” agreed Marschik.
The men left. The detective followed.
LAMONT CRANSTON remained with Howard Griscom and George Ballantyne. The two theatrical men became engaged in a lengthy discussion.
“This can’t go on,” declared Griscom. “We must use common sense, even if it goes against the grain. These racketeers are—”
“What about them?” questioned Ballantyne impatiently. “You exaggerate the situation, Howard. These two men to-day — neither of them can be considered a suspect.
“Your detectives, planted in the lobby, become overzealous. They see a menace in a slight altercation. Do you agree with me, Cranston?”
In reply, Lamont Cranston reached in his pocket and brought out a package of cigarettes. It was unopened, and still bore its cellophane covering. He laid it on the desk and began to take off the outer wrapper.
“A very unsuspicious article,” he said. “Simply a package of cigarettes. This fellow who called himself Steve Marschik took it from his pocket a short while ago—”
“I saw him put it back,” interjected Ballantyne.
“You saw him put back another pack,” declared Cranston quietly. “I had a similar pack in my pocket. I exchanged it for his. This is the one that Marschik was carrying.”
The package was opened. Two cigarettes slid out and fell on the table. Cranston picked up one and tore the end from it.
Instead of tobacco, flakes of a yellowish powder poured on the table. Cranston swept them into an empty ash tray and examined the substance closely.
Ballantyne and Griscom watched him in amazement. Cranston moistened the tip of his finger and touched the powder. He brushed his hands and stepped back.
The powder began to sizzle. A thin, gaseous smoke arose. A pungent, sulphuric odor pervaded the office. Ballantyne started toward the door.
“It’s all right,” assured Cranston. “It’s over now; I used only a small quantity. You can imagine the result, if the contents of a few of these cigarettes had been poured into a paper cup partly filled with water. The fumes would have gone through the entire theater and—”
“I’m going out to the lobby!” exclaimed Ballantyne. He rushed from the office.
“Too late,” declared Cranston.
Ballantyne returned with Babson, the theater manager, a minute later.
“Marschik cleared out,” he said. “The detectives let him go. He said he didn’t want to see the show.”
He turned abruptly to Cranston.
“If you suspected this,” he demanded, “why didn’t you tell us?”
“I do not act on suspicion,” replied Cranston. “I utilize facts when I am sure of them.
“You had no proof of any criminal action on the part of Marschik. When Mr. Griscom told me that the suspect at the Eagle Theater carried nothing more alarming than a package of cigarettes, I thought it would be wise to examine the next package that might be discovered on a suspicious person.
“Marschik will trouble you no more. He has failed in his mission. But there will be others — more dangerous, perhaps, than Marschik.”
“Unless,” interposed Griscom severely, “we yield to demands!”
“Never!” exclaimed Ballantyne. He brought his fist fiercely against the table. “So long as I can prevent it, our theaters will not pay a cent to that gang of crooks.”
He turned abruptly and left the office. Griscom followed him, with the theater manager.
Only Lamont Cranston remained. He stood there, imagelike in his pose, his eyes staring steadily at the wall. He was thinking — not of the past, but of the future.
He was visioning the events that were to come!
CHAPTER XVI
AT THE BROOKLYN DOCK
“IT’S set for tonight, Cliff.” Madge Benton was speaking in a low, eager voice. “Durgan and Shires are both going to be there — to see that Bart Hennesy gets his. I’m telling you, because I hate Durgan!” Her eyes glowed fiercely. “I hate him — the rat!”
Cliff nodded thoughtfully. They were seated in an obscure corner of a little restaurant, where they had arranged a rendezvous.
Madge had called Cliff to let him know that she had important news. The meeting had followed. Madge was telling what she had overheard when Durgan and Shires had conferred a few hours before.
“You’ll get him, won’t you, Cliff?” questioned Madge.
The girl’s plea was pressing. Hardened to the ways of the underworld, she had but one desire. She wanted Cliff to murder Killer Durgan.
It was not an unseemly request, addressed to a man who possessed the reputation which Cliff had gained in the underworld.
“You bumped off Tim Waldron!” declared Madge. “Do the same to Durgan! He’ll make trouble for you, sure — if he finds out that you’ve been going around with me!
“There’s no use waiting, Cliff. Don’t give him a chance! He’s bumped off plenty of poor guys that way. He’s got it coming to him!
“His gang’s gone blooey — Ernie Shires is the only gunman he’s got now. Ernie don’t rate so high. He didn’t bother you after you knocked off Tim — and Durgan don’t mean any more to Ernie than Tim did!”
The logic in the girl’s speech was unassailable. Tonight — Monday night — Killer Durgan was going forth, unsuspecting of danger, into the bad lands that surrounded the Brooklyn docks. It was Cliff’s chance to settle old scores, and to clear the field that he might have Madge as his own.
Most important of all; Durgan’s proposed death would be attributed to others than Cliff Marsland; for Madge had learned that the Killer intended to make trouble for Bart Hennesy, king of the dock wallopers.
“Durgan’s meeting the truck down by the Hoosier Warehouse,” added Madge. “He’s leaving a car there. He’ll be alone.
“Let them find him when they get there — find him loaded with lead! He won’t be on deck to start the trouble between Hennesy and Larrigan.
“Bart’s had it in for Durgan, you know, ever since Big Ben Hargins was bumped off. Bart thinks Durgan had something to do with it.”
Cliff was silent. He could readily have given Madge the details of Big Ben’s death. The husky dock walloper had never regained consciousness from the blow in Pezzeroni’s.
That stroke, combined with the loss of his men in the New Era Garage, had weakened Bart Hennesy’s rule. He and his remaining lieutenant, “Spunk” Hogan, had been sticking close to the docks.
“Bart’s going to go after Durgan, soon,” said Madge. “That’s why Durgan is out to get Bart first. You can knock off Durgan before he tries his game. It’s soft for you, Cliff!”
“Wait a minute.” Cliff seemed to recover from his indecision. “I’m going to make a telephone call. I’ll be back.”
MADGE watched Cliff approvingly as he started toward the telephone booth. She did not know his exact purpose, but she felt sure that it would lead to what she wanted — the termination of Killer Durgan’s career of crime!
In the booth, Cliff obtained the number that he knew so well. Positive that he was not being overheard, he discarded the usual code of emphasized words and explained the situation briefly. He merely omitted names, knowing that they would be understood.
The information that he imparted was that Killer Durgan, accompanied by Ernie Shires and a few others, intended to appear on a Brooklyn dock where both Hennesy and Larrigan would be, and be the motive of a general uprising that would end the tottering regime of Bart Hennesy.
“Call me in twenty minutes,” came the quiet order from the other end of the wire.