The Black Falcon

CHAPTER XVII THE FINAL SCHEME

NEARLY twenty-four hours had elapsed since Lamont Cranston and Harry Vincent had been carried prisoners in Rowland Ransdale’s sedan. The plotting criminal who called himself The Black Falcon was seated in a lighted room on the second floor of his stone-walled abode in the Catskills.

Behind Ransdale were half-opened French windows that showed a projecting roof toward the darkness at the rear of the clearing. Ransdale, leaning back in a chair behind a desk, was puffing at his pipe. His face showed its evil gloat. The Black Falcon, unmasked, had no cause to hide his identity here.

The door opened and Hazzlett entered. The pretended valet who served as The Black Falcon’s chief henchman was grinning as he crossed the room. He slapped a New York newspaper on the desk. Ransdale picked up the sheet and scanned the headlines.

“Good!” he snarled. “That’s the ticket. Weston has come out with it. Announcing that the police have uncovered the identity of The Black Falcon.”

“Name and all,” returned Hazzlett. “Velvet Laffrey is the guy they’re after.”

“I knew that sheet of paper I left on Cranston’s desk would clinch it,” asserted, Ransdale. “I used the one on which Velvet’s impressions were barely noticeable. A subtle touch like that, Hazzlett, is just what a criminal needs to use.”

Leaning back in his chair, Ransdale emitted a harsh chuckle. He puffed speculatively at his pipe, blew a few smoke rings, and indulged in comment for Hazzlett’s benefit.

“The way is clear,” decided the supercrook. “Lamont Cranston is good for as big a ransom as Hubert Apprison and Elias Carthers. He is The Shadow — and that makes it all the sweeter. I can deliver him for cash along with the others.”

“But you’re taking chances, with him being The Shadow.”

“Why? You know the game, Hazzlett. I can’t cover up who I am, after I turn these prisoners back. The truth will come out then. But you can be sure that I shall be so far away they can never hope to find me.

“Cash and plenty of it. No delivery of the prisoners. Let them cool as long as their friends hold out. Years if necessary. My terms will be accepted. This wholesale work is something so big that people are bound to give up in despair.

“We aren’t through yet, though, Hazzlett. Weston is still after The Black Falcon. Until the police give up, I’ll keep on, while they follow their hopeless, blind trail. Rowland Ransdale is safe. Velvet Laffrey is the man they’re after.”

Ransdale pounded the desk as he spoke; then, with an evil leer, he arose. He strolled across the room toward the door and motioned to Hazzlett to follow him.

“We’re going down to talk with the new prisoner,” declared Ransdale. “I want you to be there. It will be interesting.”

THE man who called himself The Black Falcon proceeded downstairs with Hazzlett at his heels. He passed through an archway on the ground floor and descended into a large basement. On all sides were heavy, barred doors. The place constituted a cellroom. One of Ransdale’s henchmen, a husky, dark-faced fellow, was standing on guard.

“Vincent?” questioned Ransdale.

“In there,” indicated the guard.

Ransdale drew a revolver from his pocket. With sweeping action, he unbarred the door, opened it and stepped into a square, windowless room that was illuminated by a single light.

The place was stone-walled. Harry Vincent was seated on a chair beside a cot. Ransdale motioned to Hazzlett to close the door.

“Comfortable?” questioned Ransdale.

“All right,” returned Harry, in response to the note of sarcasm.

“I trust,” stated Ransdale, in an easy tone, “that you appreciate the courtesy that I am showing you. It is not my policy to take unprofitable prisoners. However, you may prove useful later on, because of your connections.”

With that, Ransdale produced a sheaf of papers from his pocket. Harry recognized them as the memos that he had not had an opportunity to destroy.

“Evidently,” declared Ransdale, “you were keeping a close check-up on my actions. From these notes, however, I can see that you were probably apprehensive for my safety. I learned your name, Vincent, through papers in your pocket; and I also divined your purpose.

“You are working — so I take it — for a mysterious employer known as The Shadow. He is a weird personage who battles crime. Because I was once attacked, presumably by The Black Falcon, you were sent here to watch what might occur.”

Ransdale eyed Harry as though he expected a comment. The Shadow’s agent made none. Ransdale’s smile was not unpleasant. The criminal seemed to be enjoying himself.

“You did your duty well,” he commended. “In fact, you handled it up to a point where you finally began to expose the truth about The Black Falcon. Here is a blank piece of paper. Will you kindly jot down the remainder of your experience up to the present moment?”

Harry was puzzled. He could not, however, see any reason to refuse Ransdale’s request. He took the sheet of paper and briefly listed remarks concerning his capture. Ransdale bowed as he received the paper.

“Thank you,” he said. “I shall see to it that your complete notes reach The Shadow himself. You have served him well. I may have occasion to use you later. Perhaps, in return for my kindness in delivering your memoranda, The Shadow may place you at my disposal when I require your services.”

The insidious tone of Ransdale’s remark left Harry Vincent stupefied. As his captor left the cell, followed by Hazzlett, Harry began to grasp the meaning.

Ransdale had promised to deliver these notes to The Shadow. How? Dimly, Harry realized the only possible answer. The Shadow — like Harry — must be a prisoner in the hands of the villain whom Harry now knew to be The Black Falcon!

ROWLAND RANSDALE, when he had closed the door through which he had left Harry’s room, turned immediately toward Hazzlett. He flourished the sheaf of papers and made a significant gesture.

“This chap may prove useful,” he announced. “Later on, when we are ready to deliver the prisoners for ransom, a go-between may be necessary. Vincent has evidently been a capable agent for The Shadow. He can serve us as well.”

“He might try to give the game away.”

“With his master as our prisoner? Not a chance of it, Hazzlett. I’ll tell you something, though” — Ransdale’s expression was a wise one — “regarding this man Vincent. He does not know The Shadow’s true identity.”

“You mean that he doesn’t know that Cranston is The Shadow?”

“He is ignorant of that fact. Did you see how blank he was when I told him that I intended to deliver his messages to The Shadow? That was the test, Hazzlett.”

“But Vincent has been working for The Shadow—”

“Certainly; and that is a proof of The Shadow’s cleverness. Even his agents have been in the dark about his true personality. The Shadow has been too wise to trust his complete secrets to any one.”

“Then how will Vincent know after you have forced The Shadow to comply with your plans?”

“There must be some form of recognition between them. That will come later, Hazzlett. For the present, I shall play a very subtle game. Come. We shall interview our prize prisoner.”

Ransdale’s gun was in his hand when he unbarred the door to another cell. Hazzlett, at his master’s bidding, also produced a revolver. The guard rose in readiness. Rowland Ransdale was about to enter the room in which Lamont Cranston was a prisoner. The Black Falcon was taking no chances with The Shadow.

Ransdale opened the door and entered the room. Lamont Cranston, seated in a chair, looked up to view the visitor in quiet fashion. Ransdale’s smile held but a trace of its gloating. The Black Falcon advanced and extended the papers which he held.

“These may interest you, Cranston,” he announced.

Lamont Cranston appeared curious as he took the notations which Ransdale had obtained from Harry Vincent. The calm-faced millionaire read them one by one and then passed them back to Ransdale.

“Outside of the fact,” he declared quietly, “that I now know where I am and the conditions which surround me, I can see no value or meaning to these notations.”

“You do not recognize their source?” queried Ransdale.

“No.” Cranston’s tone was emphatic. “I am amazed, Ransdale, to learn that a man of your standing should deal in crime. To think that you, whom I first met at the Cobalt Club, could play the part of The Black Falcon!”

Ransdale’s eyes narrowed. His smile, though evil, showed a cunning that was not to be outdone. A question stopped upon his lips.

“I have chosen the role of crime,” he admitted sternly. “It pleases me, Cranston; moreover, it offers me tremendous return for the investment which I have made. You are one of my prisoners. The terms of your ransom will be fixed — like those of the others.

“In the meantime, you will remain guarded. I warn you that escape is impossible. New victims will be brought here; after that, I shall arrange for the delivery of all. Do not be impatient. The time will soon arrive when the police will find that it is hopeless to antagonize me.”

Cranston settled back in his chair. He seemed to take his imprisonment in philosophical fashion. His gaze showed no animosity. It was more a sign of reproval. Ransdale eyed his prisoner; then laughed scoffingly. He turned and went to the door; there he signaled Hazzlett, and the pair left the room, bolting the door behind them.

RANSDALE was silent as he led the way up to the second floor. There he took the chair behind his desk and tossed Harry Vincent’s notes into a drawer. He lighted his pipe and leaned back to enjoy the cool breeze that came from the half-opened French doors. After a short period of speculation, Ransdale noted a disappointed look on Hazzlett’s face.

“What is it, Hazzlett?” he inquired.

“The way you talked to Cranston,” replied the servant. “I thought you were going to lift the lid — to tell him that you knew he was The Shadow.”

“That, Hazzlett,” remarked Ransdale, “would have been poor policy. I tried him out, Hazzlett, when I asked him if he recognized the source of the memoranda which I gave him. You heard his emphatic denial. He followed it with an indignant protest against my ways of crime.”

“You’ve got the goods on him—”

“Certainly. I picked Lamont Cranston as The Shadow the night that he came to my apartment. I did not betray my discovery then. Why should I do so now? Cranston wants to cover up the fact that he is The Shadow. You saw the way that he pretended ignorance. Let him continue to think that I do not know his true identity.

“The Shadow, Hazzlett, is dangerous, even when a prisoner. At present, a waiting game is his best policy. So long as he thinks that he is known only as Lamont Cranston, he will make no trouble. The time is close at hand, Hazzlett, when I shall be ready to demand ransoms for my prisoners.”

“With the police still fighting you?”

“Their persistent efforts are to cease, Hazzlett.” Ransdale’s face wore a shrewd but ugly smile. “My last coup was a great one — the capture of Lamont Cranston and the elimination of The Shadow accomplished with a single swoop. My next move will be equally as cunning. I have gained a new inspiration.”

“You are going to abduct another man?”

“Yes. A warning will precede the act. The deed itself will force the law to listen to my mandates. Bring me the typewriter, Hazzlett. I shall make use of it.”

The servant produced a portable machine from the corner. He opened the case and placed the typewriter upon the desk. Rowland Ransdale opened a drawer and brought out a sheet of paper that bore the singular letterhead of The Black Falcon. He placed it in the machine. Slowly and with deliberate care, he typed a letter.

As he drew the sheet free and placed it on the desk, Ransdale opened another drawer. From this he produced a similar piece of stationery. He examined this sheet carefully by the light and his lips formed their gloating smile. Inserting the second piece of paper in the machine, Ransdale began a new typing process slower than the first.

At last, he laid the second letter beside the first and beckoned to Hazzlett. The servant approached to read the letters. He saw that both were identical — new messages to Police Commissioner Weston.

ROWLAND RANSDALE produced two falcon feathers. He examined them carefully, then thrust one through the first letter and the other through the second.

“Why two letters?” questioned Hazzlett.

“One would be enough,” admitted Ransdale, “but I do not wish to risk this one.” He indicated the second sheet which he had typed. “It is better that I should hold it myself. Then I can be sure of an effective conclusion to the plan which I am contemplating.”

Hazzlett looked puzzled. Ransdale enjoyed a smile at his servant’s bewilderment. He folded each letter. He addressed an envelope and inserted the first letter. Sealing the envelope, he passed it to Hazzlett. Then, from a desk drawer, he produced a stack of bundled bills. Taking a falcon feather from the little drawer where he kept these symbols, he thrust it through the paper wrapping that encircled the bank notes.

“Rowdy Kirshing,” remarked. Ransdale, “had a bodyguard named Pinkey Sardon. A capable fellow — ready for any crime — and admirably free from the toils of the law.”

Hazzlett nodded.

“Pinkey Sardon,” resumed Ransdale, “knew nothing about The Black Falcon, but it is probable that he wondered about Rowdy Kirshing’s source of mysterious wealth. With his salary of a thousand a week cut off, Pinkey must be anxious for new revenue.”

“Velvet Laffrey told us all about Pinkey—”

“Yes. I am recalling Velvet’s information. Also his description of Pinkey Sardon. The ex-bodyguard has aspirations to become a big shot. More than that, he has a penchant for taking part in crime himself always — something that Rowdy Kirshing was anxious to avoid.

“You are going to New York, Hazzlett. Take this money with you. Call Pinkey Sardon. Make it plain that you used to deal with Rowdy Kirshing. Say that you represent The Black Falcon and tell Pinkey that you have work for him to do. He must be in readiness, with a picked squad of mobsters at his call.”

“Pinkey’s hang-out is the Club Madrid?”

“Exactly. You can phone him there. The facts that you discuss with him will lead him to believe what every one else now suspects: that The Black Falcon is Velvet Laffrey. Pinkey will listen to your plans. Arrange to get this money to him — and tell him that another ten thousand will be his pay when he has served The Black Falcon’s bidding.”

“Ten grand in this bundle,” nodded Hazzlett, tapping the pile of cash. “Ten grand again when he has done the job.”

“Precisely. He must be ready at the Club Madrid. The Black Falcon will call him there and give him final orders. After you have made sure of Pinkey Sardon, post the letter to the police commissioner and return here at once. You may start for New York now, in the sedan.”

His orders given, Rowland Ransdale arose and walked with Hazzlett through the door. The two men descended to the ground floor. Hazzlett left. Ransdale returned upstairs.

SEATED at his desk, Ransdale relighted his pipe. He picked up the folded second letter, opened it, and reread its lines. With a chuckle he creased the message and placed it in his inside pocket.

Rowland Ransdale’s lips formed an insidious leer. This expression was a token of final triumph. To Ransdale, the game was safe from now on.

Confident that he had eliminated his greatest enemy, The Shadow, The Black Falcon had prepared the final stroke in his chain of supercrimes.

With Pinkey Sardon at his beck, the way would be clear for the most audacious abduction in the history of New York; one that would far eclipse the kidnapping of Lamont Cranston, so far as the public was concerned.

Yet The Black Falcon expected no interference. The very boldness of its scheme constituted its surety. Only The Shadow could have fathomed the crime that threatened; and The Black Falcon no longer feared The Shadow!