“We have made millions here tonight,” added Cushman. “Pringle says that he will not lose Woodstock. I tell you that we cannot afford to lose him. We have large resources, but they would not be large enough to offset any combination that might be formed to compete with us. Woodstock, however, has settled everything in our favor.
“I tell you again, gentlemen, those few minutes that he was here were worth millions to all of you who have large holdings in Amalgamated Builders!”
The directors, men of many millions, responded warmly to these statements. Cushman, the wealthiest of all, came in for strong approval. Pringle, too, was given his share of commendation. Although a comparatively small holder of Amalgamated securities, Pringle’s position as president made him important.
Pringle had for years been connected with New York building promoters. He had, in a way, been inherited by Amalgamated Builders when a smaller concern had been absorbed by the large association.
Next to Pringle, Amalgamated had possessed Hubert Craft, the celebrated architect who had designed the most modern of the buildings which Amalgamated had promoted.
Pringle, now, made reference to the dead architect, in a thoughtful tone.
“This would have been glorious for Craft,” remarked the president. “Gentlemen, our new projects will include some of the finest structures that will appear upon Manhattan’s sky line!”
“We can count on Carmody,” mentioned one of the directors.
This was the first reference to the architect who now served as successor to Hubert Craft. Still standing by the wall, Carmody acknowledged the compliment with a short bow.
A retiring, noncommittal sort of man, Carmody had plodded on to his present position of importance. Nevertheless, his ability in building design had gained him merited recognition.
A TELEPHONE began to ring. Noting that the directors were again engaged in conversation, Carmody answered it. Talk ceased while the others listened to the architect’s words.
“Mr. Pringle?” queried Carmody. “He’s here… Yes… I understand… Wait a moment — you say it has been waiting for him, and should be delivered now… At the desk… One moment, please…”
Carmody covered the mouthpiece and turned to the men at the large table.
“An odd message for you, Mr. Pringle,” the architect announced. “Someone says that he left a message for you at the desk, in the lobby; but it was not to be delivered until you call for it.”
“Who is on the wire?” questioned Pringle.
“I don’t know,” returned Carmody. “A voice that I never heard before. Insisting that you get the message at the desk.”
Pringle arose and came over to the telephone. He took the instrument from Carmody, and began to speak. He heard a voice cut off at the other end.
“This is Mr. Pringle,” the president stated. “Who are you?”
No reply.
Pringle looked puzzled. He jiggled the hook. The hotel operator responded. Pringle began to complain that his call had been cut off; then changed to tell the operator to give him the desk.
“Hello,” he said. “This is Dobson Pringle. You have a message there for me?… Very good… I was to call for it, eh?… Send it up to the twenty-fourth floor… Yes, where the Amalgamated Builders’ Association is holding its directors’ meeting.”
PRINGLE put down the telephone and went back to the table, He resumed his conversation with the directors. Between three and four minutes later, there was a knock at the door. Carmody answered it, and received a square envelope. He tipped the attendant, dismissed him, and brought the message to Pringle.
The building president uttered an ejaculation of surprise, as he showed the envelope to Felix Cushman. Although it bore the name of Dobson Pringle on the wrapper, it was also marked in the corner, with underscored words:
For the Directors.
Both Pringle’s name and this notation were inscribed in red ink. The president opened the envelope and spread a sheet of paper on the table. He stared at red-inked lines.
With Felix Cushman looking over his shoulder, Pringle slowly read these words, in an astounded voice:
“To Dobson Pringle and those concerned with the management of the Amalgamated Builders’ Association:
“You have just completed a fifty million-dollar agreement with Selfridge Woodstock of Chicago. You hold the agreement; but I hold Woodstock.
“He will not be released until you have made the arrangements which I require. My agent will call at your conference room in the Amalgamated Building tomorrow night at half past nine.
“At that time, you will deliver to him the sum of five million dollars, in cash or negotiable securities of which no record has been kept. In return for this payment, Selfridge Woodstock will be released.
“The presence of police officials in the conference room, or any attempt to violate the terms provided above, will mean an immediate ending of negotiations.”
Dobson Pringle stared aghast as he completed the reading of the message. The others were on their feet, asking excited questions.
“What is the signature?” came one query.
Neither Dobson Pringle nor Felix Cushman answered. As though in reply, Pringle let the paper flutter from his fingers. It became a target for anxious eyes as it rested upon the table. Astonished gasps followed.
Beneath the red-inked lines was no signature; yet the paper contained a sign of identity that every witness recognized. Splattered there was the crimson blotch of which all had heard — the sign of The Red Blot!
MEN looked at one another in bewilderment. This amazing message, coming so soon after the departure of Selfridge Woodstock, was a veritable bombshell. It was Dobson Pringle, the voluble, gray-haired president of the association, who first broke the tension with a statement that expressed the feeling of most of the men.
“This must be a hoax!” he asserted, with a weak attempt at a belittling laugh. “Selfridge Woodstock was here with us only a few minutes ago—”
“Hoax or no hoax,” interjected Felix Cushman sternly, “it is both a threat and a demand. It may mean danger for Woodstock. He should be informed about this at once!”
With mingled anger and apprehension upon his sharp-featured face, Cushman strode to the telephone and called the desk. The others listened to his words.
“Felix Cushman calling,” the man said. “Chairman of the Amalgamated Building directors, meeting on the twenty-fourth floor… Yes, this is Mr. Cushman himself… A gentleman has just left our meeting… Yes, going down in the elevator. His name is Selfridge Woodstock, of Chicago… Accompanied by his secretary. He may be in the lobby now… Tell him he must return at once. Page him immediately!”
Still maintaining his anxious expression, Felix Cushman faced the other men while he stood with the telephone in his grasp. Long minutes moved by; there was no further response across the wire. It was obvious that the paging of Selfridge Woodstock was bringing no result — the man was gone!
The feeling of uneasiness was becoming an expression of alarm. Worried looks passed among the assembled group. These men realized that some unseen enemy might be at work; that on the eve of success in their fifty-million-dollar negotiation, they faced utter ruin of all their plans.
Instinctively, eyes were lowered toward the table. There, with its insidious inscription, lay the message that had caused this consternation.
A hoax?
None believed it now. With the increased tension of the dragging minutes, every man realized that the crimson-penned note was an ultimatum from The Red Blot!