Alone, Cranston picked up the telephone and called a number. He said only one word: “Report.”
As he listened, Cranston’s eyes sparkled. Important news was coming to his ears. When he had finished the telephone call, he hung up the receiver and left the office.
He bade good-by to the Griscoms as he left. Arline remained with her father for several minutes. Then she, too, departed. The old man was alone.
The afternoon slipped by. Howard Griscom remained a pathetic, solitary figure; a man whose conscience was free, but whose mind and soul were torn by doubt and indecision.
Arline had been there at noon. It was nearly four o’clock when Maurice Belden called to see the theater owner. Griscom received him.
Belden’s very appearance was deceiving. He was tall and well-dressed. His waxed mustache gave him a dandified appearance. His eyes were watchful and shrewd.
This afternoon, he seemed more crafty than ever. He sat down at the opposite side of the desk from Howard Griscom.
“It’s no use, Belden,” said the elderly man. “I’m not going to even consider your proposals. I—”
He paused to answer the telephone, which had begun to ring. Belden watched him, with catlike stealth.
“Arline?” questioned Griscom. “Yes? What!” His face turned ashen. “I can’t believe it! Tell me — where are you now? What’s that? If I say a word it may mean death — to you? Arline! Arline!”
HE joggled the receiver. The call had come to an abrupt ending. Griscom laid the instrument down mechanically. His eyes had become dull and listless. He was like a man in a trance.
“What is the matter?” inquired Belden.
“My daughter has been kidnapped,” replied Griscom, in a far-away voice. “She says that I must tell no one. That she will be released if I do as I am expected to do.
“She warned me to keep the news from the public. Otherwise, it will mean — her death — without delay!”
“I can scarcely believe it, Mr. Griscom,” said Belden sympathetically. “Yet there is hope. She says if you do what you are expected to do—”
“What am I expected to do?”
“I expect you to place your signature here!”
Belden drew a paper from his pocket. He laid it on the desk. It was a contract of the Theater Owners Cooperative Association.
Griscom’s eyes became suddenly defiant as he read the title.
“So that’s the game!” he cried angrily. “I understand it now! If I sign—”
“I believe your daughter would be safe,” interposed Belden suavely. “There are many criminals who fear our organization because of the work it is doing to aid our clients. If you were known as a member of the Cooperative Association, with all your theaters in line, I doubt that any one would dare to harm your daughter.”
“She would be returned to me?” Griscom was almost pleading.
“Eventually, I should suppose,” declared Belden. “With your membership established in our association — with the regular payment of your assessments — your prestige would reach a remarkable height. I feel positive, Mr. Griscom—”
“You want me to betray my trust!” said Griscom coldly. His eyes were those of a maniac. “I do not care for your promise or your threats! I shall call the police—”
“It would be very unwise,” said Belden firmly. “Take my advice, Mr. Griscom. Sign that paper!”
Wearily, Howard Griscom lifted a pen. Then came his remembrance of Lamont Cranston’s words. “Wait and keep up your courage.”
Should he wait? Could he wait?
Griscom closed his eyes. To his fevered mind came the image of George Ballantyne. He could see the body of the murdered man, pointing a finger of accusation. The thought was dominating.
Griscom fumbled for the telephone. Maurice Belden was talking, persuading. Griscom did not heed him. He called police headquarters.
“You can’t do that!” exclaimed Belden. “Remember what your daughter said. Remember!”
Griscom’s eyes were open now. They were staring wildly. Reaching suddenly into a desk drawer, his hand came out holding a small revolver, which he aimed at Belden. The man recoiled in fear.
“Police headquarters?” came Griscom’s far-away voice. “This is Howard Griscom. Paladrome Theater Building. My daughter has been kidnapped. I must see detectives immediately. Can you send them to my office—”
The phone fell from his hand as he dropped back in his chair.
Belden was aghast! He had not anticipated this action. Now the damage was done! Belden had expected Griscom to yield. Now, it was too late!
There was but one course a break for safety. Belden was neither gunman nor murderer. He was a smooth talker who kept away from trouble. Now was his opportunity. Taking advantage of Griscom’s stupor, Belden fled from the room, governed only by his desire to escape before the police arrived.
THE final editions of the evening newspapers carried a sensational story. Cliff Marsland read it in amazement as he stood on a street corner. Arline Griscom’s picture appeared beneath sprawled headlines.
MAGNATE’S DAUGHTER KIDNAPPED!
Howard Griscom had told his story, briefly and pathetically.
The murder of George Ballantyne had been discounted as a racket plot by the police. Arline’s kidnapping could not well be treated in the same manner.
The newspapers had lifted the lid, and were publishing Griscom’s accusations. Detectives were at work, seeking to trace the girl from the time she had left Griscom’s office. The sleuths were experiencing no success.
Cliff turned back to Larchmont Court as he read the newspaper. He was sure that Killer Durgan had a hand in this.
He had investigated Durgan’s apartment at The Shadow’s order. He had been instructed to follow any clew that might lead to Durgan’s whereabouts.
So far, Cliff had gained no results in that work. He had been seeking information in the underworld, chiefly through Dave Talbot and Patsy Birch. No news had been obtained.
The Shadow was at work, Cliff was sure. He believed that the man of the night was following subtle clews, and that agents whom Cliff had never met were operating. For Cliff had been instructed to make telephone calls only at stated times.
The clock outside of Cliff’s window showed half past eight when he reached his room. The electric sign flashed with its border pursuing an intermittent course.
Nine thirty would be the time for his next futile report. If no answer should be received, the orders were to call half hourly thereafter.
Cliff felt a surging antagonism toward Killer Durgan. He wanted to find the man — quickly.
The telephone rang. Cliff answered it eagerly. He gasped as he heard Madge’s voice!
He wanted to cry out in elation. He had hoped for this. He had wondered if Madge knew that he was still alive. He had even wondered if the girl was still living.
“Cliff!” Madge was speaking quickly. “I’ll tell you where I am. Near as I can get it. Old house somewhere near Ninety-sixth Street. West of Broadway. One block between me and the river is a big apartment. Electric ball on top of it. Goes around and around. Saw it tonight.
“I’m locked in” — the girl seemed breathless — “locked in on the fourth floor. Fire escape comes up the back. You can make it from there — to a hall that has a torn window shade. No windows here.
“Durgan has let me look out when he’s around. He’s out now. I’m in a little room like a cell. Found a telephone. Durgan has it hidden.
“Help me, Cliff! There’s another girl here, too. Durgan means trouble. He’s mad! Hurry, Cliff—”
The call ended. Cliff realized that something had made Madge alarmed. Her instructions were definite enough to start. She had said “another girl.” That fitted Cliff’s suspicions.