The man had walked from the picture, and the reel came to a sudden end while The Shadow was still writing. So far the picture had shown nothing that had not been observed by Lamont Cranston from Griscom’s window.
Now came a strange action. The projector was operating again — slowly — and the reel was running backward!
THE unknown man backed into the picture. He stood beside Marschik, while the throngs moved in the wrong direction — automobiles backing toward Times Square — the whole scene a curious medley!
The important man backed away from Marschik now. He threaded his way curiously through the crowd, as though his eyes were in the back of his head. He reached the corner and walked back through traffic.
An automobile was waiting there. The man’s feet seemed to step upward and rearward. He moved into the open door of the car. The door closed.
The automobile backed slowly across the street through the crazy reversed traffic.
The Shadow’s eyes could not be seen, but the hand was evidence that they were alert. It was writing data, with rapidity.
Halcyon Eight — special sedan — 1930 model — winged radiator cap — side spare tires — mirrors on them — damaged right fender — double-barred bumper -
The data was amazing. Even after the automobile had rolled back out of the picture, The Shadow’s hand was yet at work, putting down every item that might be used to identify the car.
An ordinary observer might have believed that it would be impossible to distinguish one car from another of the same model. The Shadow’s notations belied that fact.
Even though the list included only items that were discernible from a distance, they gave the automobile such a tabulation of individuality that the search could surely have been narrowed down to a comparatively small list of cars.
The Halcyon Eight was an expensive car. It catered to those who desired individuality in automobiles.
The room was in darkness. A low laugh sounded as hollow, echoing merriment. It was a laugh that indicated success.
To The Shadow, the task that lay ahead was not a great one. He had the facts he needed — how the man who had met Marschik had arrived on the scene.
Through the medium of the motion-picture reel, The Shadow had accomplished the impossible. He had made time move backward!
CHAPTER XIX
THE FINAL THREAT
HOWARD GRISCOM stared with haggard eyes at the visitor who entered his office. It was fully a minute before he recognized Lamont Cranston.
Griscom smiled feebly. His face was pallid, almost the color of his gray hair. He was a man overburdened with worries.
He tried to rise from his desk, to shake hands. Cranston stopped him with upraised hand.
“I’ve made my decision, Cranston,” said Griscom, in a weak voice. “I’m going through with it — no matter what happens because of Ballantyne!”
His head began to nod; he caught himself with an effort, and regained the dignified expression that was characteristic of his usual bearing.
“You’re fighting it out?” questioned Cranston.
“To the end!” declared Griscom. “I would have yielded if Ballantyne had said the word. But he died with determination. It is up to me to carry on! It’s the only honorable way!”
He paused to stroke his forehead. Griscom’s eyes were half closed; he seemed to be picturing that room where George Ballantyne’s dead body had been discovered.
“It’s a week now,” declared Griscom. “One week since Ballantyne — died. Not a clew to the identity of the murderer! Wilberton called me up the day after the tragedy. He offered condolences. He asked if I would like to see him.
“He expected that I would want the loan, with Ballantyne no longer here. I couldn’t do it, Cranston. Wilberton was amazed. It seemed obvious to him these criminals would stop at nothing to attain their vile purposes.
“He may be right, Cranston. There’s nothing to link the murder with the racketeers. Perhaps” — the old man’s eyes wandered to a photograph of his daughter that stood upon the desk — “perhaps my turn will be next!”
“You mean they may murder you?”
Griscom nodded.
“I don’t think so.” Cranston’s voice was cool and calculating. “One murder is serious enough. They will let it rest — for a while. Then they will try some other method.”
The words seemed to relieve Griscom. He did not notice the ominous tone in which Cranston had uttered his final sentence. The fact that murder might not be attempted was reassuring. Griscom’s dulled mind could consider nothing else.
“Belden came here,” said Griscom. “He came a few days after Ballantyne’s death. He seemed very sorry because of it. He said it was unfortunate.
“He, too, expected that I was ready to quit. He was quite surprised when I told him I would have nothing to do with his association. He called it a legitimate business.
“He is right, Cranston, on the face of it. We cannot prove a thing against him. Still, I am convinced that he is working with the murderer!”
“Police methods,” observed Cranston quietly, “are sadly lacking in many important ways. They are unable to cope with a situation like this one. Yet this racket may be ended — soon!”
“How?” Hope gleamed in Griscom’s eyes as he spoke.
“That is a mystery,” returned Cranston, with a thin smile. “I can say that I am positive of one fact. Before this week is ended, the theater racket will be doomed!
“It is the last hope of a master mind who is seeking to continue his evil ways. One by one, his rackets have been ended.
“The police have another failing. They attribute different rackets to different men. They have not yet discovered that a billion-dollar business cannot persist unless it is organized.
“They are dealing with a crime syndicate, with one racketeer at the head of it — a man protected by innumerable precautions.”
“This sounds incredible, Cranston! If it is true, how can the master mind be detected?”
“THROUGH the murderer of George Ballantyne! The archenemy is sparing no effort to recuperate from his other losses. His hand controlled the warehouses — the garages — other businesses.
“When he saw his rackets fading, he sought to gain mastery over the most notorious racket in New York. He intended to govern the dock wallopers. In that, he failed!”
“Who has been fighting him?”
“Some unknown person with a brain as keen as his own. But this super-racketeer is cunning. His plans for the theater racket were developing slowly.
“The man who is opposing him evidently thought” — the faintest trace of a smile flitted, unnoticed, across the speaker’s lips — “that the collapse of the dock racket would temporarily set back all the menacing schemes. But there, the czar of all rackets struck instead of being cautious.
“Ballantyne’s death was the result. His one plan, now, is to dominate the theaters. He is staking everything. You, instead of Ballantyne, are now his stumbling block!”
“I am proud of it!” declared Howard Griscom. “It may mean a great sacrifice — perhaps death. Nevertheless, I shall remain firm!”
“I admire your decision,” said Cranston. “I feel confident you will succeed. Wait, and keep up your courage.
“Before a few more days have passed, the racket may be doomed. Like the others, it is due to end suddenly — at the time when least expected.”
Howard Griscom seemed encouraged by the words. He raised himself from the desk and stood erect by the window, staring down into the street. The door opened and his daughter entered.
Arline was beautiful to-day. She bowed politely to Lamont Cranston; then walked forward to greet her father. With his arm on the girl’s shoulder, Howard Griscom walked into the outer office, while Arline spoke consolingly.