The Black Falcon

CHAPTER XII MILLIONAIRES CONFER

ON the second evening following the episode at the Garman Apartments, Rowland Ransdale was seated in his comfortable den. Wearing his slippers and smoking jacket, the millionaire mine owner was puffing at a large-bowled pipe as he studied the headlines of the evening newspapers.

Ransdale’s face showed a pleased smile. The journals were still filled with talk of The Black Falcon; and they teemed with credit for Ransdale’s part in submerging the kidnaper’s gangster minions.

The Garman Apartments were still under police observation. Patrolmen were on the lookout for suspicious characters. Detectives were in the vicinity.

The cordon had disbanded after the disappearance of The Black Falcon, but there were still men available in case of emergency.

Rowland Ransdale and his servant Hazzlett were armed. They had been within their rights in defending themselves against Terry Rukes and his mobsters; moreover, Ransdale had acted with the telephoned sanction of the police commissioner.

According to the newspapers, The Black Falcon had met his match when he had tried to abduct the wealthy mine owner; and editorial comment upheld Ransdale as the type of man upon whom the law could depend. Ransdale, in interviews with reporters, had expressed the hope that The Black Falcon would return. The mine owner had shown self-confidence rather than boastfulness when he had made this statement.

Ransdale looked up quietly as he heard Hazzlett enter. The husky valet had come with an announcement.

“Call from the lobby, sir,” he said. “A gentleman named Lamont Cranston has come to see you. A friend of the commissioner’s, sir.”

“Lamont Cranston.” Ransdale was speculative. “Yes — I recall the name. I’ve heard of him before — have met him in fact. He’s the chap who travels everywhere. Tell him to come up, Hazzlett.”

The servant went to the living room. Ransdale, rising, stacked newspapers in orderly piles. While he was relighting his pipe, he heard the outer door of the apartment open. Facing the door, Ransdale stepped forward to greet a tall, quiet-faced individual whom Hazzlett had ushered across the living room.

“Good evening, Mr. Cranston,” greeted Ransdale. “I recall that we have met before.”

“At the Cobalt Club, perhaps?” questioned Cranston.

“That must have been the place,” nodded Ransdale. He motioned Cranston to a comfortable chair.

Although he did not express it, Ransdale was curious as to the purpose of Cranston’s visit. As a preliminary gesture, he beckoned to Hazzlett, and the valet brought a box of expensive cigars from which Cranston selected one.

WHILE his visitor was lighting the perfecto, Ransdale noted him closely. The light of a match revealed Cranston’s unusual features. The visage which Ransdale saw was a hawklike countenance, with a calmness that reminded the observer of a living mask.

A pair of sparkling eyes turned toward Ransdale as Cranston shook out the lighted match.

Those eyes, in turn, saw an unusual face. They took in the firmness of Ransdale’s countenance. The mine owner had a pleasant, well-formed visage; it was one, however, that showed hidden determination. Ransdale’s eyes were keen; he was obviously a man who could rise to action, as he had proven in his battle with Terry Rukes.

“I come to congratulate you, Mr. Ransdale.” The words issued in even tones from the thin lips of Lamont Cranston. “You have done society a great service through your prompt action here. In delivering death to that gang of ruffians, you performed a duty I should have been pleased to aid.”

“It was really nothing much,” protested Ransdale, with a modest laugh. “Hazzlett — my servant — and I were in ambush. We are both good shots. We practice marksmanship a great deal out at the mines in Colorado.”

“I held no doubts as to the capability of your marksmanship,” came Cranston’s smiling reply. “My only regret was that you did not have an opportunity to spot the hidden leader of the game — The Black Falcon.”

“I hold the same regret,” returned Ransdale. “The villain never appeared within the apartment. Neither Hazzlett nor I caught a glimpse of him. Police Commissioner Weston told me that he had seen The Black Falcon, out at the home of Elias Carthers.”

“I saw him there also,” remarked Cranston. “I was just too late to aim for him. I did, however, bag one of his henchmen, at long range.”

“The one who was killed on the lawn?” queried Ransdale.

“Yes,” answered Cranston.

“I recall the incident,” nodded Ransdale. “Commissioner Weston mentioned it. He said that a friend had saved his life on that occasion. You were the friend?”

“I was.

“Then,” decided Ransdale, “you are a member of our select trio. Like Hazzlett and myself, you bagged a minion of The Black Falcon. I realize, Mr. Cranston, that you, like myself, would be pleased to take a shot at the master criminal himself. If you have any scheme for falcon hunting, the suggestion would interest me.”

“That work belongs to the police,” declared Cranston. “Nevertheless, Mr. Ransdale, I feel that I should take a personal interest in the case. In fact, I am willing to spend a great deal of time and money in this matter. I knew Hubert Apprison. Elias Carthers was also a friend of mine. They are prisoners of The Black Falcon; and they should be delivered.”

“Precisely,” agreed Ransdale. “I knew both of those men by acquaintance. My social contacts in New York are wide, but spasmodic, due to my frequent absence from the city. You are right, Cranston. Any clew to The Black Falcon is important. Commissioner Weston tells me, however, that his men are on the trail of the crook himself. They know his identity.”

“They are after a man named Velvet Laffrey,” said Cranston with a nod. “That has not been made public—”

“Wisely so,” returned Ransdale. “Weston spoke to me regarding the matter, in hopes that I might be able to provide some information. I have encountered confidence men at rare intervals — but I could not recall any one who answered to the description of this man Laffrey.

“After all, Mr. Cranston, The Black Falcon needed only a passing acquaintance with the affairs of his victims. Apprison — Carthers — myself — all of us were open to attack. We were men of wealth who never gave a thought to our security.

“It was merely good fortune that Hazzlett happened to be in the room at the far end of the apartment. The window was open. He went to close it. He heard voices on the fire tower. He suspected danger, as this is the only occupied apartment on the fourth floor. That was how I came to call the police commissioner; and at his advice, Hazzlett and I prepared the trap.”

“You may still be in danger,” interposed Cranston’s meditative tone. “Have you considered that fact, Mr. Ransdale?”

THE mine owner smiled, and his lips showed his confidence. Reaching in the pocket of his smoking jacket, he produced a .38-caliber revolver and broke it so that Cranston’s eyes could view the loaded chambers.

“Hazzlett is similarly armed,” informed Ransdale. “Let The Black Falcon launch a new attack. We shall be ready for him. Moreover, the police are guarding this vicinity. No, Mr. Cranston, I am convinced that The Black Falcon will leave me alone hereafter. I doubt that The Black Falcon would be foolish enough to let a grudge interfere with his plan of action.

“If such were his policy, he might have it in for you — presuming that he has learned that you were responsible for the death of one of his henchmen on the night that he kidnapped Elias Carthers. Have you considered that fact?”

“Yes,” returned Cranston, “and I, like yourself, have ignored it. I happened to be armed on the night when I arrived at the Carthers house. That was simply because I was traveling alone in my coupe and I usually carry an automatic on such occasions.

“A .38?”

“No. A .45.”

Ransdale’s eyes opened widely. He snapped his revolver shut and laughed as he dropped the weapon back into his pocket.

“You go in for heavy artillery!” he exclaimed.

“Anything up to an elephant gun,” declared Cranston, with a smile. “I handle weapons in accordance with their size. A .45 obtains results.”

“Yes,” agreed Ransdale, “but as a pocket weapon” — he shrugged his shoulders — “even my own revolver is too large. I would prefer a short-barreled gun for ordinary occasions.”

“I need no weapons,” explained Cranston, “except when I am alone. I have servants at my New Jersey home; ordinarily, when I ride back and forth from New York, I travel in my limousine, with my chauffeur, Stanley, at the wheel.

“I have never encountered trouble either at home or on the road with Stanley. It is only when I ride by myself that I require precautions.”

“Like the rest of us,” observed Ransdale, “you are ordinarily careless. Hazzlett and I had our guns packed away two nights ago. It was merely fortune that aided us. Had we not heard the men on the fire tower, we would have been easy prey for The Black Falcon.”

“I choose to be careless,” declared Cranston. “I shall never make my home into an armed camp. Like yourself, I am a man of wealth. But I feel convinced that such rascals as The Black Falcon prefer to attack those who are apparent weaklings, like Apprison and Carthers. Particularly” — the thin lips were smiling in approbation — “after the reception that he and his mobsmen received when they tried to seize a man who could fight.”

RANSDALE’S responding smile was a pleased one. The mine owner liked Cranston’s commendation. He puffed his pipe; then became serious.

“You are right, Mr. Cranston,” asserted Ransdale. “We both have done our part in thwarting The Black Falcon. However, as men of wealth, we represent a distinct class of society. So long as this hawk of crime remains uncaptured, it is our part to be ready to cooperate with the police.

“I appreciate your visit. Should you require my aid, financially, in any measure that you plan to undertake, you may count upon it. I feel, however, that I should make my present situation plain to you. Frankly, I am nervous, since my combat with those mobsters. I am going to take a trip from New York.”

“To the West?”

“No. To a secluded residence in the Catskills. The weather is pleasant and I have an excellent house far off in the confines of the forest land. Hazzlett is going with me; I have caretakers at the place upon whom I can rely. I am the one upon whom The Black Falcon has real reason for revenge. I need a vacation. Like yourself, I prefer to be careless — or let us say carefree. A gun in readiness — police on the watch — such things annoy me.”

“We are of the same mind,” came Cranston’s statement, as the tall visitor arose from his chair. “I am glad to have met you again, Mr. Ransdale. Let us hope that the renewal of the acquaintance will lead to a future meeting.”

“It will,” assured Ransdale, walking to the door with his guest. “I assure you, Mr. Cranston, that immediately upon my return to New York, I shall communicate with you.”

“Either at my home in New Jersey,” invited Cranston, “or at the Cobalt Club. You are welcome at either place at any time. And let us hope that when we meet again, we shall be able to discuss the matter of The Black Falcon as a more tangible subject.”

“Agreed,” responded Ransdale, as he shook hands with his guest at the door to the corridor.

The mine owner waited at the door until the tall form of Lamont Cranston had entered an elevator. Then Ransdale turned back into his apartment. He strolled across the living room and entered his den. He puffed his pipe; then chuckled and called to his servant. The husky valet entered.

“Hazzlett,” then remarked Ransdale, “what is your opinion of our recent visitor?”

“A quiet sort of bloke,” returned the servant.

“Who do you think he is?” A knowing smile was creeping over Ransdale’s lips.

“He said,” replied Hazzlett, wondering, “that his name was Lamont Cranston—”

“I know that,” interposed Ransdale. “But you know well enough, Hazzlett, that one individual can sometimes play two parts—”

“You — you don’t mean” — Hazzlett was stammering — “that — that Lamont Cranston is—”

“You are guessing it, Hazzlett,” prompted Ransdale, his smile becoming an evil twist. “Lamont Cranston is The Shadow!”