The gleam in Froman’s eyes was unmistakably plain. Holtmann, staring with ghastly expression, saw doom reflected in those shining optics. He was too frightened to speak.
“So far as you are concerned,” resumed Froman, “I promise nothing. My purpose is to demand. You will have only one choice — to obey. You are stupid, Holtmann — so stupid that you do not yet realize why I have arranged your capture!
“Let me go back to when you were in Moscow. You became very friendly with a man who held important power. You and he agreed upon the terms under which you would work. You made one important proviso; namely, that you should receive prompt payment for services which you might render. That was promised.”
HOLTMANN’S shifting eyes were aghast. His captor was telling him facts which he thought were known only to himself and the man with whom he had negotiated in Moscow.
“You were playing a shrewd game,” continued Froman. “You had established yourself well. So you became wary. You wanted surety — proof that you would be able to collect whatever might be owed you. You expressed doubts concerning the financial security of the Moscow government.
“The man with whom you were dealing became confidential. He promised to give you all the proof you needed. You played the part of a skeptic. He was ready to convince you that whatever monetary claims you might have could be paid instantly — not in gold” — Froman’s voice became slow and emphatic — “not in gold, but in—”
Holtmann’s face was distorted with terror. Froman, leaning over the pitiful captive, was delivering his words in a tone that carried a grim threat. These revelations had brought astonishment; Holtmann’s expression showed that Froman was striking home.
“Your friend in Moscow was indiscreet,” declared Froman. “He told you too much. He even showed you the proof which you desired. Then he swore you to secrecy.
“But, unfortunately, his indiscretion ceased after a certain point. His promises to you were overheard. But when it came to the actual information, and the display of the proof, he relied upon secrecy.
“Perhaps he regretted the confidence that he had shown in you. Nevertheless, he was forced to rely upon your silence. You had other friends in Moscow. They would have protected you had that one man tried to cover his indiscretion by silencing your tongue forever.”
Beads of perspiration were forming on Holtmann’s forehead. His parched lips twitched and moved apart as he made a last defiant effort to parry with his captor.
“It is all a lie!” he gasped. “I never learned— I never even saw— I— do not know—”
Froman was standing erect, his eyes harsh, his smile cruel. His well-formed features displayed the hardness of chiseled granite. He was a man of stone.
“You will speak!” he declared. “You will tell all you know! Those words will be drawn from your lips. We have been seeking long to learn what we now believe you know.
“In Moscow, we are handicapped. The few men who know the secret are beyond our reach. Here, in New York, we can work. You will taste our methods, Holtmann.”
“I know nothing” — Holtmann’s protest was wild — “I know nothing—”
“It will be unfortunate for you if you know nothing,” said Froman coldly. “You are the base ore from which we intend to crush precious wealth. Should that ore contain no vast wealth” — he shrugged his shoulders — “it will be crushed just the same. We will not cease until we are sure that we have extracted all that we need.”
A flicker of departing hope came over Holtmann’s face. Froman smiled cruelly.
“You are thinking of deception?” His tone was derisive. “That cannot help you. You will not gain freedom when you speak. We intend to hold you until we have completed our work.”
“And then—”
Holtmann blurted the words in a last effort toward salvation.
“I promise nothing,” replied Froman.
Holtmann’s lips tightened. His attitude changed. His pleading expression ended. He seemed determined to fight to the finish. Froman saw that he contemplated resistance. He offered one more opportunity.
“Speak now—”
The order came in a cold, even voice. Holtmann closed his lips and adopted a grim attitude.
Froman turned on his heel and went to the door. He turned the knob and opened the barrier. His three henchmen trooped into the chamber of doom. Froman uttered terse words in Russian. The men approached the straitjacketed form of Marcus Holtmann.
NO time was lost in preparations. Before Froman’s arrival, Holtmann had felt the binding pressure of the torture jacket. Now, while one man held him propped, another drew the thongs tighter until the huddled body winced in agony.
Holtmann was game. He fought against the torture, writhing futilely as his teeth chewed at his lips.
Trussed tightly, he became obdurate, seeking to outlast the pain until unconsciousness would come to his rescue.
Froman spoke to the third man. The fellow produced an oddly-shaped torch and lighted it. He thrust the burning brand into Holtmann’s face. The flame scorched the victim’s cheeks. It approached his eyes, and the helpless man closed his lids tightly to escape the searing touch.
Froman, stolid and unyielding, stood waiting. He gave no word to direct the progress of the torture.
These men were artists in the primitive work of inflicting suffering.
At times the brand drifted away from Holtmann’s scorched face. Instinctively, the man would open his eyes. All that he could see was the stern, unmoving face of Frederick Froman.
Then the light would dance before his vision, throwing its livid heat upon his eyeballs, forcing him to shut his eyes again and seek some freedom from the torturing heat.
Not one of the three inhuman brutes desisted. At times the jacket would be loosened; again, the flaming torch would move away; these were but short respites that presaged a new round of torture.
The deadening pain of the straitjacket was counteracted by the terror of the live torch. There was no escape for Marcus Holtmann. His blistered face showed dry before the light. He was reaching the limit of human endurance.
A pause; then Frederick Froman acted. His signal called for his men to desist.
The pressure of the binding straps relaxed suddenly. The firebrand was drawn away. His throat too parched to emit a sigh, Marcus Holtmann opened his eyes and found himself staring into the sneering face of Frederick Froman.
“Speak!”
The single word reached Holtmann’s ears in a low tone that seemed to come from a great distance.
Mechanically, Holtmann moved his lips. He spoke in gasping tones that only Froman, leaning close, could hear.
Short, vague phrases became connected sentences. Holtmann’s terrified eyes were staring at the searing torch that wavered threateningly above Froman’s shoulder. The menace was too great for human resistance.
Marcus Holtmann spoke; and Frederick Froman, listening intently, smiled as he heard the words.
He was learning the facts that he sought to know!
CHAPTER IV. THE SHADOW HEARS
IT was late the following afternoon. Parker Noyes was seated comfortably on a sun porch of Tobias Waddell’s home. He looked up as the millionaire stepped from the door that led to the house.
“I was just talking to Lamont Cranston,” announced Waddell. “I invited him out here to have dinner with us.”
“Remarkable chap, Cranston,” returned Noyes.
“A man of consequence,” declared Waddell, in a tone of approval. “It is enjoyable to have him here, as a contrast to some of these ne’er-do-wells who—”
“Such as young Tholbin,” observed Noyes, with a dry smile.