Maxwell Grant
The Romanoff Jewels
CHAPTER I. A MILLIONAIRE ENTERTAINS
As the huge limousine swung up the gravel drive and stopped beneath the porte-cochere of a large, graystone mansion, it would have seemed to the casual observer that there was no one in the rear seat of the car.
But the chauffeur opened the door as though he expected some one to get out.
“We are here, Mr. Cranston,” he announced. “This is Mr. Waddell’s home, sir.”
Shadows in the back seat resolved themselves into a figure which moved languidly, as though aroused from a reverie. The owner of the car arose in leisurely fashion, and stepped from the limousine.
“Very good, Stanley,” he said to the chauffeur. “You made excellent time coming here. Be back by half past eleven.”
A footman was approaching from the door of the house. The chauffeur spoke to the attendant.
“This is Mr. Lamont Cranston,” he said. “To see Mr. Waddell.”
“Will you come with me, sir?” the footman asked Cranston with a bow. “Mr. Waddell was expecting you, sir. I shall announce your arrival.”
As the limousine pulled away, Lamont Cranston and the footman ascended the steps. Inside the door of the sumptuous residence, the servant went ahead to announce the visitor.
Beneath the mellow glow of the hall lights, Lamont Cranston made an imposing figure. He had removed his coat, and now stood attired in immaculate evening clothes. The somber black of his garments accentuated the tallness of his stature. His figure was both imposing and ominous.
Lamont Cranston possessed a remarkable face. His features were cold-chiseled, firm, and masklike. His deepset eyes sparkled keenly; they, alone, added animation to that inscrutable countenance. Motionless as a statue, silent as a phantom, he seemed a veritable figure of mystery.
Yet stranger even than the form itself was the shadow that it cast. Stretched across the rug-covered floor lay a long patch of darkness that commenced from the feet of the man and terminated in an elongated silhouette— the profile of Lamont Cranston. The very atmosphere seemed charged with the eerie silence of a seance room. It betokened the presence of the unknown.
A MAN appeared at the other end of the hall. Short and stout, with a rolling gait, he made a ridiculous figure as he hurried across the floor. This was Tobias Waddell, the millionaire host, who was coming to welcome his guest, Lamont Cranston.
“Glad to see you, Cranston,” was Waddell’s greeting. “Sorry you were held up. Come right along with me — right along. Want you to meet my friends.”
The tall visitor joined the millionaire, and the two returned by the path over which Waddell had come.
They entered a large reception room, where a dozen men and women were gathered. Waddell introduced the new arrival.
It was obvious that Lamont Cranston had arrived too late for the function which had taken place that evening. The party had reached an informal stage. So, after the introduction, Waddell and Cranston stood aside and chatted.
Noting the way in which Cranston’s steady gaze turned and centered upon different persons present, Waddell spoke in an undertone, acquainting his friend with facts concerning those individuals in whom Cranston seemed to display a passing interest.
“Marcus Holtmann,” informed Waddell, as Cranston observed a short, sour-visaged man who was the center of a small group. “Gave us an interesting talk tonight on Russia. Just came back from there, you know.
“Engineering contracting — that is his line. Talked a lot about the Five Year Plan. Must have learned a good bit over there — more than he tells—”
The speaker broke off as he saw Cranston watching a portly man who was listening to Holtmann.
“Parker Noyes is my attorney,” remarked Waddell. “I believe you met him on your last visit here. Very capable man, Noyes. It was he who introduced me to Holtmann.”
As Cranston chanced to glance toward a corner of the room, Waddell nudged him and indicated a tall, handsome man.
“Popular young chap,” observed Waddell. “Met my daughter at Noyes’ house some time ago, and has come here frequently. Name is Frederick Froman. Very agreeable personality. Appears to have a lot of money. Different from that fellow Tholbin.”
With the mention of the second name, the stout millionaire directed Cranston’s attention to a sallow-faced young man who was standing beside the grand piano. Betty Waddell, the millionaire’s daughter, was seated on the piano bench. She and Tholbin were engaged in conversation.
“David Tholbin,” mused Waddell. “Wish I knew more about him. He’ll be proposing marriage to Betty, first thing you know. He follows us too much when we travel. Seems to have some money — how much, I don’t know. Sort of an adventurer, I figure.”
It was obvious that the millionaire judged men by their wealth. Lamont Cranston, himself a multimillionaire, was a highly honored guest, gauged by Waddell’s standard.
Without speaking or giving visible notice of his action, Cranston made a calm comparison of the two young men whom Waddell had last indicated in the conversation.
The two formed a marked contrast. Froman, with light hair and complexion, possessed a frank face.
Tholbin, sallow and black-haired, appeared as a shrewd schemer.
Yet of the pair, Froman was the more dynamic. He was one of those men whose age is difficult to determine. The firm set of his chin showed something of the mental force that lay behind.
FOUR men had been pointed out to Lamont Cranston. They were men of varied sorts. Marcus Holtmann — a man of business; Parker Noyes — a sedate lawyer; Frederick Froman — a gentleman of leisure; David Tholbin — a young adventurer. Their purposes in life were different. Chance, tonight, had made them guests at the same social function.
That same chance had brought a fifth visitor in the person of Lamont Cranston. He was the one who observed; and his keen, piercing eyes were ferreting hidden secrets.
With it all, Cranston possessed a remarkable aptitude for concealing his own actions. Not one of the four sensed the interest that he was taking in them.
Strolling leisurely across the room, Lamont Cranston joined the group that was listening to Holtmann. The sour-faced man was answering questions. His brief, terse phrases came to Cranston’s ears.
“Five Year Plan — gigantic idea — yes, I spent six months in Moscow — vast natural resources in Russia — wealth in back of it — many reports are based upon lack of authentic information—”
Another man had joined the group. The newcomer was Frederick Froman. He displayed a purely passive interest in the discussion. He lighted a cigarette, roamed leisurely away, and returned. His second approach took place as Marcus Holtmann was ending the discussion.
“Well, gentlemen,” declared the man who had been to Russia, “I feel that I have talked enough for this evening. I can only say that my experiences were interesting and enlightening. They proved to me that one cannot judge conditions in Russia by a short visit only. Now that I am back here, I am more interested in America. My stay in New York ends tonight.”
“You are leaving for the Middle West?”
The question came from the lawyer Parker Noyes.
“For Chicago,” replied Holtmann. “My train goes at midnight. I must leave here in ample time to stop at the hotel on the way. I am staying at the Belmar.”
“You will have to leave by eleven o’clock,” observed Noyes.
Holtmann nodded.
The group broke up as the conversation ended. Only Lamont Cranston remained.
He smiled as Tobias Waddell approached him. He walked to the side of the room with the millionaire, and the two sat down in chairs that were drawn side by side.