COMMISSIONER WESTON drummed the table thoughtfully. At last, he spoke in a decided tone.
“This case,” he announced, “involves the most amazing method of demanding ransom that I have ever known. Usually, people are told to put money in some outlandish spot. But here is a criminal who announces his intention of sending his representative to a scheduled business meeting.
“Obviously, The Red Blot’s agent will walk into a trap. I would suggest that you assemble to meet him, as required. We, the police, can take care of the rest.”
“An excellent suggestion,” observed Dobson Pringle. “You mean that you will have men stationed close by.”
“Exactly,” affirmed Weston. “We shall make no attempt to scare away The Red Blot’s agent. Your association will fulfill the terms required.”
“Regarding the money?” questioned Pringle.
“Hardly,” smiled Weston.
“One moment,” objected Felix Cushman. “Please read that last paragraph, commissioner. Remember what I have said; that we must assure the release of Selfridge Woodstock. If we assemble without the money, we will not be fulfilling the required terms. That — according to The Red Blot’s statement — will mean the end of negotiations.”
“You are prepared to have five million dollars?” questioned Weston, in astonishment. “You would place that sum in jeopardy—”
“I would not care to do so,” interposed Cushman. “Nevertheless, I adhere to my original statement. The release of Selfridge Woodstock would be worth that sum to our association.”
“Gentlemen” — Cushman spoke to the directors — “we all know that Selfridge Woodstock is a man of immense wealth. His release would not only assure the success of our enterprises; it would also gain us the heartfelt thanks of the man himself. To Selfridge Woodstock, five million dollars is not an immense sum.”
“At the same time” — Cushman was back to Weston — “it would be folly to deliberately sacrifice five million dollars by placing it into the hands of The Red Blot.”
The situation seemed to be reaching the stage of a dilemma. Commissioner Weston tried to offer new assurance.
“Your meeting tomorrow night,” he declared, “will be well protected. I have already advised that you meet The Red Blot’s agent. I do not approve of the delivery of ransom money. Still, I would like to have these negotiations bring results — not only the arrest of The Red Blot’s agent, but the capture of the criminal himself. If he should appear — the agent, I mean — and you could treat with him.”
“He might demand to see the money,” interposed Cushman.
“Exactly,” decided Weston. “Therein lies the difficulty. On the contrary, if you could demand to see Selfridge Woodstock—”
“Why not?” exclaimed Dobson Pringle, leaping ahead of the commissioner’s suggestion. “Let us have the money for the agent. Cash — or securities — to the extent of five million. Perhaps the agent will be prepared to produce Selfridge Woodstock then. At least, we could sound him out.”
“The money will be in jeopardy!” warned Weston.
“What about your police?” questioned Cushman angrily. “A few minutes ago, you told us they would be prepared to seize The Red Blot’s agent. Would they be paralyzed if the man tried to run away with our money?”
“They would not!” retorted the commissioner, rising to his feet. Then, in a quiet tone, he added “There is nothing to be lost by the action which you suggest. I have advised the meeting tomorrow night, under the conditions which are proposed in this demand from The Red Blot. I did not expect that you would have the required amount available; if you are willing to take chances with five million dollars, I have no objection.”
“It is a drastic step,” remarked one of the directors.
“Drastic, yes,” agreed Cushman. “But I favor it. Our conference room is an isolated spot. I can readily see how some emissary — unknown to us — can come there. We could not possibly recognize him as The Red Blot’s agent until he demands the money. That moment, I believe, will be the vital one to our hopes. We can arrange to have the funds on hand — but if you disapprove, gentlemen, I am willing to forgo the plan.”
While the directors sat in consideration of the proposal, Dobson Pringle interjected a severe note of dissatisfaction.
“I am the president of this association,” he asserted. “It seems to me that you are taking too much upon your own shoulders, Cushman. Suggestions, in this matter should come from me, not from you!”
This outburst of personal objection had an electric effect upon Felix Cushman. The dark-haired man faced Pringle with blazing eyes.
“So far as we are concerned,” he retorted, “you are nothing but a figurehead, Pringle! The appropriation of funds lies in the hands of the directors — not the president. Your duties concern actual building operations. Objections from you are not likely to be sustained. I trust that the directors will remember that fact.”
Cushman turned to the directors as he finished speaking. Commissioner Weston saw immediately that this man held the whip hand over the others. Pringle’s interjection had awakened what appeared to be a feud over the ownership of power.
THE result was an immediate reaction on the part of the directors. One by one, each voiced his approval of Cushman’s plan. When the vote had been taken, Dobson Pringle arose and spoke with a subdued spirit.
“I accept your decision, gentlemen,” he declared. “It was merely my desire to offer sound advice. I stand rebuked; therefore, I shall cooperate in full. Nevertheless, I still feel that we are running too great a risk, now that I have given the subject careful consideration.”
“Your apology is accepted, Pringle,” returned Cushman testily. “As chairman of directors, I shall arrange the appropriation of five million dollars to have on hand tomorrow night. I shall confer with you, Commissioner Weston, so that we may have the funds brought to our conference room under police guard.”
“If we search the premises before the money is brought in; if we have every outlet guarded so that no one can leave the place, I can see no risk involved. The primary objective is to effect the release of Selfridge Woodstock.”
“Nothing must be said about this arrangement,” warned Commissioner Weston. “I shall attend to the details. I shall come to your offices in the Amalgamated Building tomorrow morning, and make the necessary strategic arrangements.”
Thus came the final arrangements for the next night. With five million dollars as the bait, Commissioner Weston was ready to lay the snare that would enmesh The Red Blot’s emissary!
CHAPTER XV
IN THE LAIR
A MAN was seated in a curious, stonewalled office. The room was windowless; a single light hung from the ceiling between the door and a desk on the opposite side. The man’s back was toward the door; he was reading a newspaper spread upon the desk.
A buzzer sounded. The man at the desk folded the newspaper. He arose and turned toward the light. The action revealed his face. It was the hard-featured, unshaven countenance of Socks Mallory.
Opening the door, Mallory stepped into a narrow, stonewalled passage. This corridor, like the little office, had but a single light. It terminated in steel doors — one at either end. Mallory went to the door at the right end, pulled a lever, and opened the barrier.
A lanky and side-jawed individual stepped through the opening. His greeting to Mallory was a twisted grin.
The newcomer’s face was one well known in the underworld of New York, although it had not been seen there for a long time. The visitor was Moocher Gleetz, the cracksman.