The Banshee Murders

CHAPTER XV

COMMISSIONER RALPH WESTON was in a very grumpy mood.

“It’s nonsense, Cranston!” the commissioner insisted. “Claude Older couldn’t have disappeared in Central Park, any more than Winslow Ames! Both men left the vicinity of Central Park instead of going there!”

To prove his point, the commissioner thumbed through the report sheets that Inspector Cardona provided with a corroborating nod.

The report sheets proved all that Weston claimed, but largely because he so interpreted them.

First: Winslow Ames.

The man had made inquiries regarding his Pullman reservation at Penn Station. He had been seen to board the Boston car. After that he had vanished.

“What do you say to that, Cranston?” queried Weston.

“Mistaken identity,” returned Cranston. “A ticket agent and a Pullman porter wouldn’t notice a passenger closely enough to know if somebody else happened to be doubling for him.”

With a snort, Weston tossed over the other report. It concerned Claude Older and stated that he had been met by a very reliable business acquaintance outside the Lookout Cafe. Said business acquaintance had driven Older to Grand Central Station, so he could take a suburban train to visit friends in the country. Older hadn’t been seen since.

“A business acquaintance doesn’t know a man too well,” declared Cranston, “particularly in the dark. I would say that somebody else came out of the cafe and took the ride to Grand Central in the blue coupe.”

Cardona shot a query:

“How did you know it was a blue coupe?”

“Most coupes are,” rejoined Cranston. “A roadster would be flashy, a sedan somber. A coupe is generally between.”

It reminded Cardona of flat tires being more common on the West Side than the East Side. Nevertheless, Joe had to admit that Cranston was right. That applied to minor matters only, for Cardona was still in accord with Weston on the matter of Central Park.

“A hansom cab runs away,” gruffed Weston, “and a man on a bicycle steers himself into a pond. We’ve checked both matters and they concern neither Winslow nor Older.”

That was Cranston’s cue to bow out politely from Weston’s office. At the door, he paused to toss back a query.

“About those missing men, commissioner,” asked Cranston. “What did you say their occupations were?”

“Winslow was buying commercial plastics,” called the commissioner. “Older was studying the South American market for synthetic rubber. If you want to know what the chap who fell in the pond was doing, ask him. He’s waiting outside and you may as well tell him he can go. We’re not holding him.”

Thus it was that Lamont Cranston met Phil Harley, except that he didn’t tell Phil that he was no longer wanted. Instead, Cranston invited Phil to ride up town, adding that it was by order of the police commissioner.

Instead of Shrevvy’s cab, Cranston was using his limousine today and Phil was duly impressed, though strictly silent. It was Cranston who broke the ice with the calm-toned question:

“And just what is your alleged occupation, Mr. Harley?”

Phil’s eyes narrowed at the query.

“Ames was buying commercial plastics,” remarked Cranston, “although there happen to be none available on the market. Older was arranging synthetic rubber shipments to South America which happens to have an oversupply of the natural material. I thought there might be a third connection.”

Steady eyes fixed straight on Phil and this time drew a reply.

“All right,” snapped Phil. “My job is to read over patent reports. Any objection?”

“None at all,” assured Cranston. “How are you progressing?”

“Not so well,” Phil admitted frankly. “They haven’t delivered enough of them at my hotel.”

“So you spend your time looking out the window at Central Park.”

“That’s right. I live at the Sans Souci -”

Phil caught himself and sharply.

“Say!” Phil’s exclamation was heartfelt. “Why did you make that guess about Central Park?”

“It wasn’t precisely a guess,” corrected Cranston. “I was thinking of Winslow and Ames. They seemed to prefer the same neighborhood.”

Phil’s stare became steady as the limousine stopped.

“I’m dropping off here,” stated Cranston. “This is the Cobalt Club. You can reach me here if you wish. My chauffeur will take you to your hotel. It has a nice name, the Sans Souci.”

“It’s French,” explained Phil. “It means ‘without worry’ -”

“I know,” interposed Cranston. “What’s more, I hope you’re living up to it.”

Entering the Cobalt Club, Lamont Cranston found Harry Vincent waiting with Margo Lane. Promptly, Cranston gave Harry some vital information.

“I’ve started Harley thinking,” Cranston told Harry. “If he doesn’t phone me, he’ll probably talk to you.”

Harry nodded while Margo wondered.

“Our problem is not entirely why or where people have disappeared,” continued Cranston. “It is who is going to disappear next. Harley may be on the list.”

“But they could have taken him last night,” began Margo. “Instead they tried to murder him.”

“It wasn’t his turn to vanish,” explained Cranston. “He was just an outsider where the leopard crew was concerned.”

“But if Phil Harley is to be next -”

“He may not be the next,” considered Cranston. “I am listing him purely because he is one more person who has no real business in New York. I would like to learn the names of some others. Meanwhile” - Cranston emphasized this to Margo - “I want you to stay quite close to old Sylvia Selmore.”

“But Miss Selmore belongs in New York -”

“She lives here,” conceded Cranston, “but at present she doesn’t belong. She postponed her trip after that seance which Madame Mathilda gave. Remember?”

Margo nodded to prove that she remembered.

“The banshee business stopped her,” summed Cranston, “and it marked the beginning of these disappearances. I’ve checked Madame Mathilda; she admits she sprang the spook stuff because she received a phone call promising her some cash, but she doesn’t know who phoned.”

With that, Cranston arose. Seeing that he was about to leave, Margo questioned coyly:

“Where next, Lamont? Back to the Graceland Memorial Library?”

“Of course,” replied Cranston blandly. “I’ve learned a lot there, Margo. That banshee pool, for instance. It used to be called the Bowl.”

“The Bowl? Why?”

“Because it was just a rounded gully with an overhanging ledge called Indian Leap. They dammed it by the bridge so that the stream that ran through would form a pool.”

Remembering how the stream cascaded down below the bridge, Margo could visualize the old Bowl and more.

“Why, the big rock must be the ledge!” she exclaimed. “I can see it now! The banshee slid beneath what was the old ledge and worked around to the nearest gully, the one I stumbled into later!”

“Very good,” approved Cranston. “There’s a great deal to be learned about Central Park. All its natural ravines were not turned into pools. There would have been too many.”

Cranston showed his interest in Central Park after he left the Cobalt Club. Soon he was walking through the transverse where the truck had gobbled Winslow Ames, only to carry him along another leg of his strange disappearance.

Not far along the transverse, Cranston came to a gate. It opened into a narrow path that followed a defile, then rose gradually. Meeting another footpath, Cranston went along it and crossed a burbling stream by a little rustic bridge.

The bridge was artificial, so was the stream’s present course. It had been diverted from the natural channel that marked the path to the transverse. Letting his eye rove up the stream, Cranston saw where it came from.

This rivulet had long ago been put underground. The bank which it flowed from rose high above it, forming a great mass of earth which was flanked by jutting rocks, high above.

Not as high as the Knoll, those rocks, though they were like small foothills leading toward it.

At the spot where the stream issued, there was a heavy iron grating set deep into a rock formation that formed the foundation of the grassy embankment. Cranston didn’t follow the stream, because his path lay off to the right of it. So he continued his stroll by that route until he reached the Graceland Memorial Library.

A polite attendant started to show Cranston to the room that contained old maps and volumes dealing with the history of early New York, but Cranston shook his head. There was another room that interested him more today. It bore a sign:

MANHATTAN GENEALOGY

It didn’t take Cranston long to find the volume that he wanted, since it was practically at the head of the row, among those bearing the letter A. In opening the book, Cranston practically skimmed through the early pages, proving that he was more interested in more modern data.

As he found what he wanted, Cranston gave a strangely subdued laugh, which by its very tone belonged to his other self, The Shadow!