The Golden Grotto

CHAPTER XIV CRANSTON PAYS A VISIT

EVENING found a solemn group of persons assembled at the apartment of Anthony Hargreaves. The short, baldheaded millionaire appeared worried. He was trying to greet his guests with his usual unconcern, but the pall of gloom that lay over the throng was apparent.

Whispered discussions were held in corners; and the one subject was the kidnaping of two nights ago. The absence of Elise Cathcart and Gale Sawyer was a matter of dread speculation. Mutual apprehension was the one bond that had caused the entire group to assemble on this night.

Lamont Cranston, alone, seemed unperturbed. The tall millionaire was standing in a corner, smoking a cigarette. His sharp, piercing eyes were studying the individuals present.

With even greater perspicuity than that of Professor Sheldon, Cranston was classing these persons into two distinctive classifications. He could tell the idealists from the others.

Maurice Traymer arrived rather late; and shortly afterward, Professor Kirby Sheldon put in his appearance. There was a contrast in these arrivals. Traymer, Cranston noted, was nervous and annoyed in manner. When he shook hands with Hargreaves, he exchanged only a few words with the host.

Professor Sheldon, on the contrary, came in with a spirit of friendliness that changed the entire atmosphere of the place. Depositing his hat and cane, he turned to greet his students.

“Traffic has no place in Utopia,” he declared, with a smile. “It caused me an unavoidable delay tonight. It is a long ride in from East Point — and the congestion near the bridges is unendurable.”

The professor did not seem to notice the lack of enthusiasm that clung to the assemblage. Anthony Hargreaves looked about him, hoping that Sheldon’s brightness might dispel some of the gloom. It had done no more, however, than to create a lukewarm effect. Hargreaves hemmed and hawed as he interrupted the professor.

“Er — er — Professor Sheldon” — Hargreaves was apologetic — “I have — er — been wondering about our future lectures, and I thought that it might be best to conclude the series tonight—”

“Tonight?” questioned Sheldon incredulously. “Why tonight?”

“Of course, professor,” explained Hargreaves, “you have heard of the misfortune which has befallen two members of our group—”

“Misfortune?”

“Yes. The kidnaping of Miss Cathcart and Miss Sawyer.”

Professor Sheldon looked about him in astonishment. He scanned the faces of the people closest to him as though seeking to learn which ones were absent.

“Kidnaping?” he questioned.

“Yes,” responded Hargreaves. “In all the newspapers, professor—”

“I have not been consulting the newspapers,” explained Professor Sheldon. “I take a vacation from them while I am at East Point. This is all news to me.”

THE tension broke as Hargreaves and others explained the situation. An expression of pained regret came upon the professor’s face as he heard the details.

All members of the group were close to him, with one exception — Lamont Cranston. Standing near the spot where the hats and other garments were placed, Cranston was quietly noting the contents of a note that he had taken from the band of the professor’s hat.

In that note — now a blank sheet — Cranston had read Harry Vincent’s report of the handkerchief that bore the initials E. C., and Woodruff’s theory that the letters referred to Elbert Cordes. As a faint smile appeared upon Cranston’s lips, the sound of a voice came to his ears.

“Two nights ago,” some one was saying, “Gale Sawyer went out to visit Elise Cathcart—”

The mention of Elise Cathcart coincided with Cranston’s thoughts. A woman’s handkerchief, bearing the initials E. C.! That fitted into the mystery as effectively as did the name of Elbert Cordes!

Lamont Cranston sauntered over to the group. He found that new plans were beginning to progress. The professor had decided that the lecture course should be postponed. At the same time, he felt that the breaking up of the group at this unpropitious time would be a great mistake.

Lamont Cranston smiled as he saw Anthony Hargreaves begin to speak. The millionaire had a suggestion — one which Cranston already knew — and this was a good time for him to make it. He told the company about his projected yachting cruise. His idea met with a murmur of approval.

“Let’s go away a while,” suggested Hargreaves. “All of you are welcome. After a two weeks vacation, we will feel better. Perhaps, by then, the girls will be home.”

“An excellent suggestion, Mr. Hargreaves,” said Maurice Traymer. “You can count on me to be with you.”

This statement was the beginning of an impromptu roll call. One by one, the various persons of the group expressed their willingness to take the trip.

As the assent appeared to be going unanimous, Lamont Cranston noted that Maurice Traymer’s nervousness began to abate. The young society man appeared quite relieved.

“Can you join us, professor?” asked Hargreaves, turning to Professor Kirby Sheldon.

“It would be impossible,” replied the old sociologist. “I have much work to do. I enjoy retirement at East Point. It would be much better if I did not see you people until after you have returned with minds refreshed. Then I shall be able to resume my lecture series.”

“We’re all going, then” — Hargreaves hesitated as he saw Lamont Cranston — “you must pardon me, Mr. Cranston — I forgot to ask you. Of course, you will be with us?”

“I am very sorry,” returned Cranston quietly. “I do not know how I can possibly arrange my plans. No, Hargreaves, I shall not be able to join you on the cruise.”

Hargreaves expressed his disappointment. The members of the group began to scatter, as they talked about the forthcoming cruise. Maurice Traymer seemed at ease for a few moments; then he looked at Cranston with a dubious expression. Cranston was talking with Professor Sheldon.

“Like yourself, professor,” Cranston was saying, “I am a busy man. Yet not too busy to forget Utopian ideals such as you have instituted.”

A pleased expression appeared upon Sheldon’s face. He shook hands warmly with the tall millionaire, and spoke as he bowed in acknowledgment of the compliment.

“You are on the proper side of the line, Mr. Cranston,” observed the professor. “You are a worthy proponent of the true Utopia. When that state exists, you will most certainly be a member of the group that composes it.”

Professor Sheldon turned to answer a question addressed by Hargreaves. Lamont Cranston was apparently watching the pair; in reality, his eyes were noting the face of Maurice Traymer, who was standing near by. Cranston sensed that he had come under the society man’s observation. Traymer again appeared troubled.

SAUNTERING across the room, Cranston suddenly accosted Traymer. He greeted the society man in friendly fashion. Traymer made an effort to appear at ease.

“Sorry I can’t go on that cruise,” said Cranston. “I feel that I would enjoy it immensely. I have many business affairs, Traymer. In fact, right now, I am worried about tomorrow. I dislike going over to my home in New Jersey. I would prefer to stay here in New York for the night.”

“Why don’t you?” asked Traymer suddenly. “I’d be glad to have you stop up at my apartment, Cranston. That would be much better than going to a hotel — or driving home.”

“It would not inconvenience you?”

“Not in the least.”

“I believe that I shall accept the invitation. I have my suitcase with me, because I had just about decided to stay in town. The chauffeur is driving back unless he hears from me at the club within the next hour.”

“Fine, Cranston,” said Traymer warmly. “Excuse me a few minutes while I call my apartment. My man should be there.”

The moment that Traymer was gone, Cranston began to inscribe a note, in his usual secret fashion. The short fountain pen, hidden in the coat pocket, quickly finished its task.

The attendant was back at the hat corner. Cranston walked over and told the man to bring out the suitcase that was beneath the table. While the attendant was thus engaged, Cranston slipped a folded piece of paper into the inner band of Professor Sheldon’s gray hat.

Traymer returned shortly. He and Cranston left, accompanied by the professor. They separated from the old man when they reached the street. Traymer took Cranston to his coupe. Fifteen minutes later, they were at Traymer’s apartment.

The society man expressed annoyance because his servant was not there. He stated that the fellow was stupid and inefficient; that this display of unreliability would mean his dismissal. Traymer placed Cranston’s bag in a bedroom; then stated that he would mix a drink for his guest. Leaving Cranston in the living room, Traymer went into the kitchen of the apartment.

Cranston was reclining comfortably in a chair when Traymer left. A few minutes passed; then Cranston arose softly and went toward the kitchen. His sharp eyes, peering through the crack of a half-opened door, saw what Traymer was doing.

The society man had taken a small box from a shelf, and was emptying a quantity of powder into one of the drinks that he had mixed. Cranston smiled as he saw the shape of the box, and the color of the powder.

Maurice Traymer was planning to drug his guest!

Returning softly to the living room, Cranston drew a tube from his pocket and opened it to reveal several tiny vials within a padded interior. He carefully selected one that contained a greenish liquid. He replaced the others and pocketed the tube.

The tiny green vial was girded with a metal ring which had a hook attached. By means of this device, Cranston affixed the vial to the ring on the third finger of his left hand, turning it so that the little bottle was concealed within his palm.

When Maurice Traymer entered with two glasses, and set one beside Cranston, the only object that showed on Cranston’s hand was the glittering gem that shone on the third finger.

LAMONT CRANSTON raised the glass to his lips. He sipped a portion of the contents. He replaced the glass with his left hand. Maurice Traymer was watching him narrowly.

Cranston’s hand drew away and paused momentarily above the glass, its back toward Traymer. At that moment, Cranston’s thumb moved into the palm of his hand, and pressed the side of the vial. The tiny cork dropped back as on a hinge, and the green liquid poured downward into the glass.

At the same time, Cranston made a gesture with his right hand, and momentarily directed Traymer’s attention in the opposite direction. Scarcely had the liquid left the vial, before the left hand was again lifting the glass toward Cranston’s lips. This time the millionaire did not desist until he had swallowed the entire drink that Traymer had prepared.

By clever subterfuge, Lamont Cranston had counteracted the drug which Traymer had used. The green liquid was a counteragent.

Not for one second had Traymer suspected Cranston’s action. He still watched expectantly; and when Cranston’s eyes began to close, Traymer could no longer repress an exultant smile.

“I am becoming very tired,” complained Cranston sleepily. “My head seems a little weak. Think I’ll lie down, Traymer — if you don’t object to my leaving—”

“Certainly not,” responded Traymer.

Cranston went into the bedroom. He removed his coat and vest. He pulled away his collar and tie, and managed to kick off his shoes. The effort was too much. He sprawled upon the bed, without bothering to extinguish the light.

Traymer looked at him from the doorway, and the society man’s face assumed a gloating expression. Pressing the light switch, Traymer gently closed the door of the little room, and went to the telephone in the living room.

It required only a minute for the society man to get the number that he had called. With his eyes upon Cranston’s door, Traymer spoke in a low tone.

“All ready, Norbin,” he said. “He’s out for an hour, anyway. The dope worked quickly tonight. Get up right away… How long?… Yes, fifteen minutes will be great… I’m stepping outside for an hour… The door will be unlocked… Down the fire escape from my apartment. Bring enough men to do it smooth… Say — I felt weak when I found we’d have to do another job tonight. Thought the yacht cruise would end the game… But this one job is easy… I’ve fixed it perfectly.”

Maurice Traymer hung up the receiver. He went back and softly opened Cranston’s door. He could see the millionaire silent on the bed. Closing the door, Traymer extinguished all the lights except a dim corner lamp in the living room. Then he left the apartment.

Five minutes went by. The door of the inner room opened softly. Lamont Cranston was no longer feigning sleep. By the dim light of the living room, his form was visible as his white shirt stooped above an opened suitcase on the floor. Then the trace of whiteness disappeared. The tall, stooped form became a shapeless mass that had no visible substance.

Ten minutes after Traymer’s departure, a figure came from the door of the little room. A tall, spectral phantom, it seemed more unreal than human. A soft laugh came from lips that were hidden beneath the broad brim of a dark slouch hat. A black cloak swished as the figure moved; rustling, the cloak opened momentarily to reveal a crimson lining; then it resumed its inky blackness.

No longer was Lamont Cranston an easy prey for those who sought his capture. The little room was empty — the man upon the bed was gone.

Lamont Cranston had become The Shadow!