CHAPTER XIV
THE CRIME UNSOLVED
“PAGING Mr. Selfridge Woodstock!”
The bell boy’s repeated cry was passing through the huge lobby of the Hotel Gigantic. It was echoed, now, by other callers; for the urgency of Cushman’s request had caused the clerk to use every possible effort in finding the Chicago financier.
The paging was unnoticed by a short, solemn-looking man who was standing in a corner of the lobby. Although it was this individual’s duty to watch for unusual events in the hotel lobby, he saw nothing out of the way in a bell boy’s call. The solemn-looking man was Belville, senior house detective of the Hotel Gigantic.
“Hello, Belville.”
This quiet greeting was more important to the house detective than the loud paging of Selfridge Woodstock. Turning, Belville recognized the keen, firm-chiseled countenance of Detective Merton Hembroke.
“Hello, Hembroke,” returned Belville. “How come you’re here tonight?”
“Still looking for Socks Mallory,” confided Hembroke.
“The killer that’s working for The Red Blot?” queried Belville, in an awed tone.
“That’s the guy,” answered Hembroke. “I’ve got a hunch, Belville, that he’s living high. Joe Cardona’s after him, too; but he’s got stools working in the East Side. That’s not my idea. I figure that Socks Mallory is playing ritzy.”
Belville nodded. He held a great respect for Merton Hembroke, coming ace of the New York City detective force.
“This isn’t the first swanky hotel lobby I’ve been in tonight,” added Hembroke. “You can believe it or not, Belville; I’m going to cross Socks Mallory’s path one of these nights.”
Belville grinned approvingly.
“Paging Mr. Selfridge Woodstock — Mr. Selfridge Woodstock—”
Hembroke noted the cry and turned to Belville with a questioning air.
“What’s going on?” he asked. “They were paging that fellow Woodstock when I came into the lobby. Rather unusual — all this racket — isn’t it?”
As if in answer, a bell boy approached and spoke to the house detective. Belville was wanted at the desk. Hembroke followed as the houseman went in that direction.
“Something’s happened,” the clerk told Belville. “We just got a call from the twenty-fourth floor to get hold of a man named Selfridge Woodstock. Now there’s a report that Elevator No. 9 is stopped on the eighth—”
Belville nodded and started toward the elevators. Hembroke kept with him. Another house detective joined them in an empty elevator. Belville ordered the operator to make for the eighth floor in a hurry.
WHEN the trio stepped from the car, they found four hotel guests clustered in front of the open door of Elevator No. 9. They were holding the limp form of a uniformed operator.
“What’s happened?” demanded Belville.
“Saw the boy lying here,” responded one of the guests. “Knocked out. Look at him.”
“Take care of this, Belville,” ordered Hembroke, “I’m going up to the twenty-fourth to find out about this man Woodstock. Get in touch with me right away.”
The detective entered the waiting elevator and was whisked upward. One minute later, he strode into the room where the directors of the Amalgamated Builders’ Association were still gathered. He spied Felix Cushman at the telephone.
“You’re calling about a man named Woodstock?” queried Hembroke.
“Yes,” returned Cushman anxiously. “Have you traced him?”
“No. There was trouble on an elevator. I’m Detective Hembroke from headquarters. What’s the trouble?”
Dobson Pringle, stepping forward, handed The Red Blot’s note to Hembroke.
The detective’s eyebrows furrowed. “The Red Blot!” he exclaimed. “How long ago did Selfridge Woodstock leave here?”
“Not much over ten minutes,” informed Pringle.
“Where was he going?” quizzed Hembroke.
“To the Grand Central Station,” declared Pringle, “To take the Bar Harbor Express.”
Hembroke seized the telephone. He jiggled the hook, gained the operator’s attention, and put in a call for detective headquarters.
“Abduction suspected at Hotel Gigantic,” said Hembroke tersely. “Selfridge Woodstock, of Chicago, on way to Grand Central to get the Bar Harbor Express. Cover there at once… ”
He paused to gain a quick description of Woodstock from Cushman; also to learn that the financier was accompanied by his secretary.
“…Elderly man,” added Hembroke, over the telephone. “Gray hair… Accompanied by young man… Secretary… Send squad to Gigantic Hotel… Elevator operator found unconscious.”
HEMBROKE’S call was the beginning of a swift investigation. One hour later, the directors of the Amalgamated Builders’ Association still sat in session; but a new man was at their head. Police Commissioner Ralph Weston had taken this room as his temporary headquarters.
Three other representatives of the law were present. Inspector Timothy Klein, full-faced and solemn, was seated beside the commissioner. Detective Merton Hembroke, alert as ever, was standing near the table. A new figure had appeared: that of a stocky, swarthy man whose visage was firm set and determined.
This was Detective Joe Cardona, whose reputation as a go-getter was fading in favor of Merton Hembroke.
The door of the room was closed. Police Commissioner Weston spoke freely as he fingered the red-inked message which had come as an ultimatum from The Red Blot.
“There is no doubt about it, gentlemen,” asserted Weston frankly. “Selfridge Woodstock has been abducted by The Red Blot. The elevator operator has given us full proof of that. He was struck down when Woodstock and his secretary entered the car on the twenty-fourth floor. He was unconscious when he was removed from the stopped car at the eighth.
“We have searched every floor of the hotel, from basement to roof garden. The search is still on, but we have gained no trace of Selfridge Woodstock. In spite of Detective Hembroke’s fortunate presence in this very hotel, and the promptness with which this case was handled, we are forced to admit that The Red Blot has baffled us.
“This, gentlemen, is a terrible climax to a series of bold crimes. Nevertheless, its very magnitude has given us an opportunity to treat with the supercriminal who is known as The Red Blot. The abduction of Selfridge Woodstock is but his first step. According to this message, he plans another — the collecting of five million dollars from your association.”
The commissioner paused to read over the terms of the ultimatum. Then, in a serious tone, he set forth a definite proposition.
“Gentlemen,” he said, “The Red Blot demands that you hold a meeting in your conference room tomorrow evening at nine thirty, there to deliver the required sum to his agent. That meeting is as important to the law as it is to you. Before I decide upon my action, let me ask what you would intend to do about it.”
Weston looked from one director to another. He singled out Felix Cushman and Dobson Pringle as the ones who would naturally act as spokesmen. Cushman was the first to respond.
“Five million dollars is a large sum, commissioner,” he said. “Nevertheless, it is but ten per cent of the amount which Selfridge Woodstock intends to supply to us.”
“With Woodstock, we gain fifty million; without him, we lose that amount. Somehow, The Red Blot knows our situation. If we could guarantee Selfridge Woodstock’s release, I would say that the accomplishment would be worth the payment of five millions.”
Audible gasps followed Cushman’s statement; nevertheless, the directors were forced to give their nods of approval.
“Cushman is right,” declared Dobson Pringle. “He is right, so far as monetary consideration is concerned. But how are we to assure ourselves that this is not a hoax; that Woodstock will actually be released?”