Master of Death

CHAPTER XX. CRANSTON EXPLAINS

A SERVANT opened the front door to admit Lamont Cranston. As he heard the visitor’s name, he bowed and ushered the multi-millionaire toward the stairs.

“Mr. Edkins has just gone up to his den, sir,” was the announcement. “He asked that you come up there upon your arrival.”

“I know the way,” remarked Cranston quietly.

With incredible swiftness, the tall man ascended the steps. There seemed to be no effort in his pace, yet he covered the distance in a few scant seconds.

The door of the den was ajar. Cranston entered so suddenly that Holbrook Edkins, standing by the fireplace, turned with an expression of alarm.

Edkins smiled as he recognized his visitor. Holding his half-smoked cigarette in his left hand, he extended his right to Cranston. After the handshake, Cranston quietly seated himself in an easy-chair, while Edkins remained standing.

“This visit is a surprise,” remarked Edkins, “and a welcome one. I had not expected you, Mr. Cranston. It is most fortunate. I am expecting Eric Veldon — the promoter whose name you agreed not to reveal.”

“Indeed,” returned Cranston. “I understood that you called me at the Cobalt Club. They said that Mr. Edkins had asked me to drop in this evening.”

“No,” said Edkins, “I did not call.”

“It must have been old Hoskins,” remarked Cranston. “He’s been bothering me for some time. He insists that I must see his collection of Malay weapons. He claims to have picked them up in the East. I doubt it. I am glad that I came here instead.”

“The sentiment is mutual,” laughed Edkins.

All during the conversation, Cranston’s sparkling eyes had been studying the setting of the room. There was vacancy on the mantelpiece where the clock had been. Nothing else, however, seemed out of place.

Cranston had retained a photographic impression of this den.

As Holbrook Edkins was taking a last long draw on his cigarette, Cranston’s steely gaze went directly beyond the heavy form of the bluff-faced millionaire. It was then that Cranston acted in a swift, yet natural, manner — so timely that Edkins never noticed it.

AN open box of cigarettes was lying on the table at Cranston’s left. Long white fingers — upon one of which shone a sparkling fire opal, plucked a cigarette from the box. Cranston, his eyes upon Edkins, arose at the same moment. With two long, easy strides, he stepped toward his host just as Edkins drew back the screen from the fireplace to toss his finished cigarette butt into the ashes.

Cranston’s cigarette was in his mouth. His left hand shot forward. Its swift motion came to a gentle stop as it caught Edkins by the right wrist, just as the big man was about to release the cigarette from his grasp.

The motion of Cranston’s right hand explained the action. Easily, his right fingers look the lighted butt from Edkins. Cranston used the glowing end to light his own cigarette.

“Thanks,” he said, with a quiet smile, as he turned back toward his chair.

To Edkins the occurrence was purely incidental. The big man did not notice that Cranston, after obtaining his light, extinguished the cigarette butt in an ash stand, instead of tossing it into the fireplace. Throwing cigarettes among the ashes was simply a habit with Edkins; his visitors did not always duplicate it. Edkins took a fresh cigarette, and ignited it with the electric lighter.

“The mantelpiece looks empty,” remarked Cranston, in a thoughtful tone.

“Yes,” laughed Edkins. “A man called for an old clock that had been sent here by mistake. He took it out just before you came in.”

“The absence of smoke stains on your mantelpiece is interesting,” said Cranston, in an idle tone. “I take it that the fireplace does not smoke.”

“I burn a fire there about once a year,” explained Edkins. “That’s why there are no smoke marks on the mantelpiece.”

“Those ashes are from the last fire?” queried Cranston, in surprise.

“Yes,” laughed Edkins. “Four months ago.”

“Odd,” said Cranston. “Those ashes have a smoothness that is unusual. Did your servant rake them?”

Cranston laid his cigarette aside and stepped forward to the fireplace. Edkins was rather puzzled as he watched his visitor remove the screen. Cranston, staring toward the ashes, held up his hand, as a sign for Edkins to stand back.

“What is it?” exclaimed Edkins.

Cranston moved backward. He grasped his host’s right wrist, restraining the hand in which Edkins held his freshly lighted cigarette.

“Do you notice those silvery flakes among the ashes?” inquired Cranston. “You can see them — when the screen is out of the way.”

Edkins did see the sparkle. He was more perplexed than before.

“What do they mean?” he inquired.

“We shall find out,” asserted Cranston quietly. “I have seen granulations of that sort before. Come out to the hallway. Watch from there.”

Cranston picked up his cigarette and led the way. In the hall, he closed the door until it was but slightly ajar. Holding, his cigarette between thumb and forefinger, he flicked it toward the fireplace with expert precision. While the tiny object was still in the air, Cranston pulled the door tightly shut.

A MOMENT’S silence. Then, from beyond the barrier came a sighing, explosive puff — a gigantic sob that resembled a discharge of a photographer’s flash powder. Edkins, alarmed, leaped toward the door.

Cranston held him.

“Keep away!” Cranston’s tone was commanding. “Back — to the stairway!”

As Edkins moved bulkily to the safety spot, Cranston turned the knob and pulled the door open. He sprang swiftly to the point where Edkins stood. The interior of the den was revealed.

The room was filled with a settling cloud of thick green smoke. The cloudy vapor had penetrated every crevice of the den. The walls were smudged with blackish streaks.

“Downstairs,” suggested Cranston. “We’re away from the danger zone, but it’s best to be farther off until the gas has cleared away.”

“What — what is it?” stammered Edkins.

“Poison gas,” announced Cranston abruptly. “I know a lot about it — through my war experience. It was a trap set to kill you, Edkins. One cigarette into that powder which lay in the ashes — that would have been all.”

“A trap — to — to kill me?”

“Apparently,” remarked Cranston dryly. “You would do best to call the police at once.”

Holbrook Edkins picked up the telephone. Bewildered thoughts ran through his brain. He mentioned a subject that disturbed him.

“When Eric Veldon arrives,” he said, “he will wonder why the police are here—”

“You mean if Eric Veldon arrives,” returned Cranston, with a quiet smile. “The possibility, however, is remote. Eric Veldon has already come and gone — by proxy. He, himself, will not visit this house tonight!”

Holbrook Edkins did not understand. Dully, he called detective headquarters. Confused thoughts still dominated his mind. Amid them, he realized that he owed his life to Lamont Cranston’s amazing observation.