Charg, Monster

CHAPTER X. THE DECISION

“MR. CRANSTON is here, sir.”

The speaker was Bryce Towson’s servant. The man had entered the conference room, where his master and Herbert Whilton were engaged in conversation at the long table. The announcement brought an expression of surprise from Whilton.

“What!” exclaimed the old financier. “Eleven o’clock already!”

He drew a massive gold watch from his pocket. The timepiece corroborated his conjecture. Meanwhile, Towson was ordering the servant to admit the visitor. Lamont Cranston appeared at the doorway.

“Is the conference ended?” questioned the newcomer, in his quiet tone. “I see that our friend Dyke is not here.”

“This is most amazing, Cranston,” wheezed Whilton. “Towson and I have been chatting; we had no idea how late it was getting. We held no conference. Dyke did not arrive.”

“I cannot understand it,” added Towson. “Dyke’s man, Parsons, called a while ago. He asked if Dyke had arrived. Apparently, Dyke intended to keep the appointment.

“Shelburne” — Towson turned to the baldheaded secretary — “suppose you call Dyke’s home again. Find out if he has returned.”

“Shall I call the private phone, sir?” questioned Shelburne. “I can talk to Parsons if I do—”

“Call Dyke’s personal number first. He will be in his laboratory if he has arrived.”

“Very well, sir.”

Lamont Cranston took a seat at the long table. His keen eyes flashed. They were watching Shelburne, as the committee secretary used the telephone upon the radio cabinet.

Whilton and Towson were engaged in quiet conversation. They did not notice that Shelburne obtained the number on this attempt. Only Cranston saw the change that came over the secretary as he began to stammer words to a speaker at the other end.

“One — one minute,” gasped Shelburne. He laid the telephone on the radio cabinet and approached the table. “Mr. Towson. Mr. Towson, sir—”

“What is it?” Towson swung in his chair. “Did you get Loring Dyke on the wire?”

“No — no, sir,” stuttered Shelburne. “Something — something has happened there. You had better talk, sir — the police are at Mr. Dyke’s!”

Towson issued a sharp exclamation. He arose and went to the telephone. Herbert Whilton, his peculiar smile half gone from his lips, stared and listened. Lamont Cranston was seated, silent in the chair.

“Yes…” Towson’s tone was precise. “I wanted to speak with Mr. Dyke… I am Bryce Towson… Yes, the consulting engineer… Yes, Parsons called me to learn if Dyke had come here. I’m calling now to learn if he is there…

“What’s that?” Towson stopped abruptly. “Murdered! Loring Dyke! I can’t believe it… In his laboratory? Strangled? This is terrible… Yes, he was to have been here tonight… Yes, I have been waiting ever since dinner… Dyke was a friend of Meldon Fallow… Yes… Yes… I knew both of them… Very well… Surely, I shall be glad to see you.”

Towson hung up. He turned toward the table. His face was frozen with consternation. The others had learned the news from the talk over the telephone. Towson, however, had more details for them.

“LORING DYKE has been murdered,” stated the engineer, as he sat down and gripped the arms of his chair. “The circumstances of his death are identical with those of Meldon Fallow. He has been strangled — horribly disfigured — terribly beaten — by some vicious killer.”

“Dreadful!” gasped Herbert Whilton. “Dreadful. This passes belief!”

“How did the police find out about it?” inquired Lamont Cranston, steadily.

“Evidently through Parsons,” returned Towson. “The servant must have called them after he found out that Dyke was not here. This is a grave situation, gentlemen. Very grave, Whilton, as it applies to you and me.”

The old philanthropist nodded.

“Fallow’s death,” resumed Towson, in a sober tone, “was a blow. Yet it did not indicate any positive connection with the affairs of this committee. Now, apparently, the same killer who slew Fallow has murdered Dyke. The connection is certain.”

“It is,” agreed Whilton. “It would seem that some dangerous enemy is threatening our enterprise. Who can it be, Towson? Do you suspect” — the philanthropist paused seriously — “could you suspect Frederick Thorne?”

Cranston’s eyes were on Shelburne. The sneaky secretary had paused in his catlike tread, midway between table and filing cabinet. Cranston could see that Shelburne’s whole attention was centered on whatever Towson might reply. Relief came over Shelburne’s face as the engineer spoke.

“That would be preposterous,” decided Towson. “Frederick Thorne offered Meldon Fallow millions for his invention. Thorne is a financier of high repute. He would never associate himself with such evil business.”

“Thorpe is a power magnate,” reminded Whilton. “Fallow refused to sell him the invention.”

“But Dyke did not. If Fallow told Thorne the details of our control of the invention, Thorne’s natural action would be to deal with us.”

“I think you are right, Towson. Perhaps it was a mistake for me to refer to Thorne.”

“Not at all, Whilton. It is a logical connection, despite its improbability. Thorne is the one man who could profit immensely by gaining control of Fallow’s supermotor.”

Whilton nodded in agreement. Towson looked toward Cranston, as though hoping for some new suggestion. Between them, Towson and Whilton had argued both pro and con; the opinion of a third person seemed a logical solution.

“Any one,” decided Cranston, “might profit immensely from control of Fallow’s motor. Its possibilities are apparent. Beginning with a reasonable amount of capital, the owner of that device could begin a revolutionary epoch.

“He could dominate the power industry. He could introduce a new era in transportation. With the machinery and formulas which you two men, as survivors of the committee, possess, a shrewd seeker of wealth could acquire a fabulous fortune.

“Therefore, gentlemen, any man who knows of the invention must be considered as a potential grasper. Thorne is the only one who has stated his desire to acquire it. That makes his position debatable.

“You can regard him as an enemy, because he wants something that he does not have. You must also regard him as a friend, because he has made a fair and open offer.”

Cranston’s eyes were toward Shelburne. He could see that the secretary’s nervousness had returned.

Each varied trend of Cranston’s discourse had brought a rise and fall to Shelburne’s hopes.

“Well spoken, Cranston.” The commendation came from Bryce Towson. “You have stated the precise situation. It leave us, however — Whilton and myself— in a difficult place. Without the formality of a regular committee meeting, we must decide at once upon our course.”

TOWSON paused impressively to look at Whilton. It was to the philanthropist that the engineer addressed his next remarks.

“Fallow was here several hours before he was murdered,” stated Towson. “Dyke should have been here this evening. A detective — a man named Cardona— is coming to see me. I must talk to him.

“I have two courses. First: to tell him about Fallow’s invention, despite the fact that it is a sworn secret; to mention Frederick Thorne as a would-be purchaser. Second: to tell him that Fallow and Dyke were both friends of mine; that they were scarcely more than acquaintances of each other; and that they were but a few of many scientific men who visit me here.

“In brief, Whilton, I can tell the entire truth; or I can tell the partial truth. Inasmuch as the matter concerns both of us — as survivors of the committee — I must rest my action upon your decision.”

Whilton pondered. Towson had raised a very important question. It was fully two minutes before the old philanthropist gave his slow reply.

“We owe a duty,” he crackled, “to Meldon Fallow. He wanted his invention to be preserved a secret for the present. We also owe a duty to Loring Dyke; he made no suggestion of mentioning the invention after Fallow died. My decision, Towson, is that you should follow the second course that you mentioned.

“Tell simple truths without jeopardizing our secret. My friend Cranston, here” — Whilton’s smile was steady as the old man stared across the table— “will certainly say nothing of these facts that he has gained in confidence.”

“You can rely upon me for secrecy,” came Cranston’s steady voice. The sharp eyes of the speaker were turned toward Shelburne. “I shall say nothing to the police.”

Bryce Towson had caught the direction of Lamont Cranston’s gaze. The engineer turned in his chair. He spoke to the baldheaded secretary.

“You have heard this discussion, Shelburne,” said Towson, firmly. “Remember: you are to say nothing to any one. You, like the rest of us, will abide by Mr. Whilton’s decision.”

“I understand, sir.”

“Put away the papers. You may go. Call me tomorrow. I intend to be alone tonight when the detective arrives.”

Shelburne complied. Packing the papers in the filing cabinet, he stalked, stoopshouldered, from the room. Herbert Whilton was rising as Shelburne departed.

“It is best that Cranston and I should leave,” declared the old philanthropist. “This matter, Towson, rests in your hands. I shall call you later.”

Lamont Cranston accompanied the old man from the conference room. They reached the street and entered Whilton’s car.

As they rode toward the Cobalt Club, Herbert Whilton raised a new subject.

“Fallow and Dyke are dead,” stated the old man, seriously. “I hope that the same danger does not threaten either myself or Towson. I meant to warn Towson to be careful. He and I now carry a heavy burden between us.

“However” — the old man’s tone denoted wheezy assurance — “we are both well protected. Fallow lived alone. Dyke was an absent-minded recluse. Towson’s case is different. He has three servants; he is an active man who is seldom alone.

“As for myself” — the old man chuckled — “my Long Island home is a place of absolute safety. It is a citadel, Cranston, with the retinue that I have in my employ. Look at the chauffeur of this car — Halliwell — who has served me for a dozen years. I am safe anywhere while he is with me.

“My servants: Randham, Parker, Hodge — all are reliable men. I fear nothing; but I must remember to warn Towson to be cautious. Yes, I must remember — ah! Here we are, Cranston, at your club!”

Lamont Cranston bade the old man good night. He left the limousine. As before, he did not enter the Cobalt Club, but strolled away along the street.

HALF an hour later, a phantom shape appeared in the neighborhood of Bryce Towson’s home. It became a gliding figure that moved stealthily up the steps in front of the gloomy building. Muffled clicks sounded in the darkness; the front door yielded.

The form of The Shadow appeared in the hallway. It faded from view as a servant passed. It reached the corridor outside of the conference room and melted with the darkness of an alcove.

The Shadow had dropped the guise of Lamont Cranston; he had returned in his cloak of black. He was awaiting the arrival of Detective Joe Cardona, that he might gain a double knowledge.

His first purpose was to learn if Bryce Towson could handle the interview in the fashion that Herbert Whilton had ordered. His second purpose was more important.

The Shadow was here to learn the details of the police theory regarding the death of Loring Dyke. Upon the statements that Joe Cardona might make, The Shadow could base his next endeavors in the search of crime.

Herbert Whilton had spoken wisely when he had told Lamont Cranston that danger hung over the two remaining members of the committee. His added remark, that both were well guarded, was also sagacious.

Twice had death struck. It was due to strike again. Yet the brain that planned horrible murder would be too wise to act with undue haste.

An interlude was coming; in that space of time, The Shadow would be active in his efforts to forestall the next deed of doom.