The Black Falcon

CHAPTER XV THE FALCON SWOOPS

A LULL had followed The Black Falcon’s attack at Rowland Ransdale’s. In the days since the time when the mine owner and his valet had shot down the invading mobsters under Terry Rukes, there had been no new demonstration of The Black Falcon’s power.

Speculation, however, was still rife on the fate of Hubert Apprison and Elias Carthers. It was obvious that The Black Falcon must be holding both millionaires as prisoners; yet there had been no effort on the part of the abductor to demand ransoms.

The newspapers had taken the repulsion of The Black Falcon as a sign that the supercrook had lost his nerve. News columns had been waiting more activity before their space would be devoted to new blasts concerning The Black Falcon. During this period of relief, the police were busy. Public fear of The Black Falcon had waned.

Of the two classes that had felt most interest in The Black Falcon’s doings, one had subsided. That was the underworld. The dragnet and other efforts of the police had been accepted as mere routine. The fact that The Black Falcon had lost his mob — represented by Terry Rukes and gangsters — had produced the feeling that The Black Falcon was crippled.

Among the upper crust, however, tension still persisted. Whatever The Black Falcon’s situation, the man of crime still held two victims; and, from the fact that he had invaded Rowland Ransdale’s apartment, it was still possible that he fostered his plans of wholesale abduction.

Every place where the elite gathered, the topic of The Black Falcon was a pressing one; and such proved to be the case among a group of persons assembled in the sumptuous home of Lamont Cranston.

Seated in a luxurious living room, half a dozen men in evening clothes were discussing the activities of the uncaptured kidnaper.

“It’s good to be outside of New York City,” admitted one gentleman, in a rueful tone. “I have great confidence in the police; but I must honestly state that I expect The Black Falcon to bob up everywhere I go.”

“We’re not far from New York now,” interposed another speaker. “This part of Jersey is a portion of greater New York — just as much as Long Island.”

“Why mention that?” quizzed a third man. “Are you trying to make us all feel uneasy? How do you feel, Cranston, living out here?”

LAMONT CRANSTON, seated in an armchair, indulged in a quiet smile. There was something lackadaisical about the globe-trotting millionaire. Perhaps it was the comfortable atmosphere of his home.

“I’m keeping away from Manhattan,” observed Cranston, in a quiet tone. “Not entirely through fear of encountering The Black Falcon, although I must admit that has something to do with it, but chiefly through desire for a rest.”

“From your last trip?”

“Yes. I stopped off in Florida after my return from the jungles of the Amazon. Then I received telegrams referring to matters that meant business pressure. That is why I came home. Everything seemed to clear up automatically upon my return, so I have kept away from New York during the past week.”

“I should think,” remarked a guest, “that you would relish an encounter with some one like The Black Falcon. You are a big-game hunter, Cranston.”

“Jungle hunting and man hunting are different occupations,” returned the millionaire. “There are great risks attendant upon elephant hunts, for instance; but those come under the head of sports. I am a sportsman, not a representative of the law. I do not care to embroil myself with criminals.”

“Maybe this Black Falcon business has subsided,” declared a guest. “The criminal depended upon a crowd of ruffians. They were killed when they tried to capture Rowland Ransdale. Since then, The Black Falcon has been a nonentity.”

“The police,” observed another man, in a wise tone, “are on the trail of The Black Falcon — at least, so I am informed. They know his identity, but have not made it public. He will run tremendous risks coming into New York.”

“They have clews?” inquired a guest.

“So I understand,” asserted the informant. “Commissioner Weston is a competent official. What is more, he has this case under his own supervision. He, himself, is one of the Four Hundred. It is good to have a man of his caliber in charge. Most meritorious, in my opinion—”

The conversation stopped as a servant entered the living room and approached Lament Cranston.

“What is it, Richards?” questioned the millionaire.

“A telephone call, sir,” answered the servant. “Police Commissioner Weston is on the wire—”

A gasp came from the listeners. This was a most unexpected announcement. Buzzing words began; then stopped as Cranston arose and faced his guests with an easy smile.

“I am acquainted with the commissioner,” he remarked. “This is probably a mere coincidence. However, since our talk has turned to The Black Falcon, I shall ask Commissioner Weston if any new developments have occurred.”

With that, Cranston strolled from the living room. The guests watched him cross the hall to a room that was opposite at a distant angle. It was Cranston’s private smoking room, where the downstairs telephone was located.

CRANSTON passed by a side door that led from the house and entered the smoking room. He closed the door behind him. The desk telephone was off its cradle. Cranston picked up the instrument and spoke across the wire.

“Commissioner Weston?” he inquired in his calm tone. “Yes, this is Lamont Cranston… What’s that?… In answer to my call?… You must be mistaken, commissioner… Let me get this exactly. You say that you received a call five minutes ago… A call from here… My home… A servant saying I wished to speak with you… Then the connection was cut off.

“I don’t understand it, commissioner… I can question my servant… What’s that? The Black Falcon?… I don’t quite understand… You say that you thought I might have some theory regarding him? I don’t quite follow you, inspector.

“Because of the matter on Long Island?… You mean the abduction of Elias Carthers… You have kept quiet regarding my action, you say… That sounds a bit puzzling, commissioner. I don’t see why you should be worried on my account… Yes… I feel quite competent of caring for my own safety…”

Cranston ceased speaking of a sudden. The long fingers of his right hand had been toying with a sheet of paper that was lying beneath the telephone standard. Drawing the paper forth as he spoke, Cranston found himself staring at a black object thrust through the center of the white sheet. It was a long feather, dyed black.

“One moment, commissioner.” Cranston’s voice became tense but steady. “I have just found something that will interest you… Here, on my desk. A sheet of paper… Blank, but with a mysterious symbol… A black feather… Yes, it appears to be the feather of a falcon…”

A chuckle came from across the table. Lamont Cranston looked up. He was staring squarely into a pair of eyes that peered through a black mask. A gleaming revolver bulged directly in front of the millionaire’s nose. An opened door to a passage beyond the study was indication of where the intruder had been stationed.

Lamont Cranston had no opportunity to move. One hand was holding the double-ended telephone. The other was on the desk. The Black Falcon held his victim helpless.

Reaching out with his left hand, The Black Falcon plucked the telephone from Cranston’s unresisting grasp. Coldly — in a voice that veiled the accustomed tones of Rowland Ransdale — The Black Falcon spoke to the police commissioner; but all the while his evil gaze and his covering revolver were fixed on Cranston across the table from him.

“Good evening, Mr. Commissioner,” snarled the supercrook. “This is The Black Falcon… In person… It was I who called your home… From this room.

“I must apologize” — The Black Falcon was chuckling gleefully — “for sending you no letter. My reason was twofold. First, because I failed with my last threat and am making amends for it now. Second, because I am outside of your jurisdiction.

“The fault is not mine. You can blame it on Mr. Cranston. I have been waiting for him to come to the Cobalt Club. Since he has not done so, I have visited his home instead.”

The Black Falcon’s evil lips held a twisted smile while sputtered protests came over the wire. Then the snarling voice recurred with a tone of finality.

“Cranston is going with me,” declared The Black Falcon. “The token which I left him — the feather through the sheet of paper — will remain here as proof of his veracity—”

With that, The Black Falcon clamped the telephone on the hook. As he had done with Elias Carthers, so did he do with Lamont Cranston. He poked the revolver forward and ordered the millionaire to rise.

Cranston’s face was calm. Half smiling, the millionaire obeyed the injunction. Cranston seemed to regard this episode as a pleasant adventure; but he made no effort to balk his enemy. Opportunity for resistance was impossible.

“Arms up — turn around—”

Cranston followed the order. The Black Falcon, shoving his revolver into the small of Cranston’s back, forced his prisoner toward the door. With a deft maneuver, The Black Falcon opened the barrier without losing his hold over the millionaire.

As Cranston walked helplessly into the hallway, The Black Falcon guided him to the right, toward the door that led outside. The door opened as the two arrived. A man was standing on the outer steps.

“Face around!” ordered The Black Falcon, in a snarling tone. “Arms behind you!”

Cranston obeyed mechanically. Handcuffs clicked as the waiting man snapped them to the millionaire’s wrists. The Black Falcon’s aid thrust his own gun into the small of Cranston’s back. With his free hand, he gripped Cranston’s shoulder and yanked the prisoner out into the night.

THE BLACK FALCON wheeled. The sound of his voice had reached the living room. Men were stepping forth into the hall. They stopped in consternation as they saw the masked enemy who faced them. The Black Falcon snarled a warning as he raised his revolver. Like frightened hares, the guests scurried for the cover of the living room.

Scoffing, The Black Falcon fired shots across the hallway. Three roaring reports echoed through Cranston’s mansion. Then, his unaimed threat delivered, The Black Falcon sprang through the open door and pulled it shut with a resounding slam.

It was Richards who came to action. The servant had gone upstairs after notifying Cranston that Weston was on the wire. The sound of the shots brought him scurrying down. The cries of the guests told him what had happened.

Leaping to a hall closet, Richards found a revolver and hurried to the door through which Cranston had been taken. As the servant opened the door, he heard the sound of a car pulling away from the drive beyond.

Richards fired futile shots. Answering spurts of flame sent bullets spattering close to the spot where the faithful servant stood. Then, with roaring motor, the car took a curve in the driveway and was gone.

Again, The Black Falcon had scored a new triumph. From a house where guests were present, he had swept away another victim. Lamont Cranston, multimillionaire friend of Police Commissioner Weston, had been abducted from his home.

With daring, the supercrook had talked over the wire to the police commissioner, during the actual moments when his crime had begun. Another challenge from The Black Falcon to the law!

More than that, however, The Black Falcon’s action was a stroke that showed a superhuman boldness. His abduction of Lamont Cranston was not only a step in his plans for wholesale kidnapping; it was an expression of his contempt for the awesome being whom all the underworld dreaded.

Rowland Ransdale — in his own character — had identified Lament Cranston as the enemy whom he sought. Rowland Ransdale, as The Black Falcon, had kidnapped Lamont Cranston.

In catching Cranston unaware, the master crook had gained his double triumph. Riding free with Hazzlett at the wheel of the car in which they had departed, The Black Falcon was snarling his elation.

Tonight, when he bestowed Cranston among his other prisoners, The Black Falcon would not only have a captive worth a mammoth ransom; in his toils would be the only foeman who might have thwarted his evil schemes.

Rowland Ransdale — The Black Falcon — was gloating with the surety that The Shadow was in his power!