The Green Box

CHAPTER IX MEN OF WEALTH

EVENING had come to Southfield. Guests were lounging in the lobby of the Southfield House. Some were chatting, others appeared to be mere loungers.

Slade Farrow appeared in the lobby. He walked over to the desk and spoke to the clerk. His tone was loud enough to be heard a short distance away. A lounger caught the statements.

“I’m checking out tomorrow,” informed Farrow. “Sorry to leave you, but I’ve got a little apartment over my clothing store and I might as well use it.”

“Very well, Mr. Farrow,” returned the clerk. “We hope you have enjoyed your stay here.”

“I have,” stated Farrow, “By the way — do you have a telegraph blank?”

“Yes,” said the clerk, “and I can send the message.”

“Good.”

Farrow received the blank and wrote out his telegram. Just as he was finishing the message, another guest stepped up to the desk to make an inquiry. It was Harry Vincent. The Shadow’s agent had timed his arrival at a moment when the clerk was busy. This gave him the opportunity he needed to catch a glimpse of the wire that Farrow had written.

The clerk came back to get the telegram, He read it aloud. Harry Vincent had strolled away. This time it was the lounger who benefited.

“David Garvell,” read the clerk. “Aristides Apartments, New York City.”

“That’s right.”

“The message: Forty dollars most salary can offer. Stop. Thirty for competent helper. Stop. Wire when clothing shipments will arrive. Signed: Slade Farrow.”

Slade Farrow nodded and strolled away. A disappointed look appeared upon the lounger’s face. The message had meant nothing to him.

For that matter, it had seemed of little moment to Harry Vincent. The Shadow’s agent, nevertheless, had remembered it word for word. He was putting it down in special ink at a writing desk in the corner of the lobby.

A TALL figure appeared from the elevator. It was that of Lamont Cranston. The new visitor to Southfield was attired in a perfectly-fitting tuxedo. His keen eyes roved easily about the lobby as he moved toward the door.

Those sharp optics saw the yellow telegraph blank in the clerk’s hand. They caught Slade Farrow going toward a chair; they observed the lounger strolling away; they spied Harry Vincent at the writing desk.

A thin smile appeared upon the chiseled lips as Lamont Cranston, his momentary pause scarcely noticed, kept on his way and reached the street.

The well-attired millionaire hailed a taxi. He ordered the driver to take him to the Crucible Club. The man nodded. He was not surprised that this tuxedoed stranger should be going there. The Crucible Club was the meeting place of men of wealth in Southfield.

The cab rolled a quarter of a mile and stopped before a pretentious building. Lamont Cranston alighted and entered. He gave his name to the doorman and was promptly admitted. An attendant led him to a card room.

Four men stopped their play as Cranston was announced.

One, a tall, stoop-shouldered man with gray hair, stepped forward with welcoming hand. His face gleamed with a broad, oddly-formed smile.

“Mr. Cranston!” he exclaimed. “I have been expecting you. I am Townsend Rowling.”

Cranston nodded as he received the real estate promoter’s handshake. Rowling turned to introduce the others.

“Meet Mr. Blogg,” he said. “Rutherford Blogg — our principal manufacturer here in Southfield. This is Hiram Marker — he owns the waterworks and the electric plant. This young man is Norton Granger, a promising attorney, well-fitted for his old dad’s shoes.”

Lamont Cranston’s keen eyes were surveying the men before him. Rutherford Blogg was a bulky, heavy-jowled individual whose face seemed as gray as his thin hair. His mouth had a fishlike droop.

Hiram Marker was a portly gentleman whose heavy gold watch chain rested wrinkled on his bulging vest. His face was fat and pudgy. His head was bald except for tiny patches above the ears.

Lamont Cranston had seen Norton Granger before, nevertheless, he studied the young lawyer’s face with new interest. Granger had an affected air of professionalism. His boyish frankness was evident, however, to this keen observer.

“Mr. Cranston is here from New York,” informed Townsend Rowling, as he invited the visitor to a chair beside the table. “He called me at the bank this afternoon. I arranged for him to come here this evening. Mr. Cranston, gentlemen, is an investor who sees possibilities in Southfield territory.”

RUTHERFORD BLOGG looked steadily at Cranston’s calm visage. Hiram Marker furrowed his pudgy forehead. Norton Granger evidenced mild surprise.

“This meeting is a fortunate one,” advised Rowling, as he turned from man to man. “I think that we three — Blogg, Marker and I — are most well informed regarding conditions in this territory. Perhaps we can give him excellent advice.”

“Regarding what enterprises?”

The question came from Hiram Marker. It was directed to Lamont Cranston.

“That depends.” A thin smile showed on Cranston’s lips. “I have many interests, Mr. Marker. I am associated with numerous others. I have an uncanny ability for sensing business conditions in communities. Time and again, I have informed my associates of excellent opportunities.”

“In particular?” queried Rutherford Blogg.

“Theaters, for instance,” returned Cranston. “Also automatic supplies. I have also found that farming equipment has many opportunities in areas such as the Southfield district.”

“You have no specific plans?” asked Townsend Rowling.

“None as yet,” responded Cranston, quietly. “I like to spend some time in any district which I visit. Moreover, I find it advisable to treat with local interests. Being long established, they are often amenable to plans for first-class expansion.”

“Southfield has passed the boom stage,” observed Townsend Rowling. “Nevertheless, Mr. Cranston, this city still presents great possibilities. We welcome you here and hope that you will enjoy your stay with us.”

Conversation turned. It slipped away from local business and became a friendly discourse on matters elsewhere. Chance questions directed toward Lamont Cranston received prompt replies. Little by little, the three big men of Southfield gained new facts regarding their visitor’s affairs.

It was late in the evening, when talk had waned, that Rutherford Blogg and Hiram Marker decided they must leave. Lamont Cranston remarked that he was going back to the hotel. Norton Granger was prompt to offer the use of his car.

Shaking hands with the other men, Cranston strolled out with Granger. The pair entered the lawyer’s car.

AS soon as they had rolled away from the club, Granger spoke.

“In fairness to you, Mr. Cranston,” he said, “I think you should know a bit about conditions in this town.”

“From the standpoint of business?” questioned Cranston, quietly.

“Yes,” answered Granger. “Concerning vested interests, to be exact.”

“You mean the three men whom I met tonight?”

“Yes. They own Southfield.”

“That is interesting.”

“It should be. You entered their fields very directly tonight.”

“When I mentioned certain enterprises?”

“Exactly. Let me enumerate. You spoke of theaters. Townsend Rowling is a real estate owner. Through that connection, he controls the bank. He is also the real owner of both theaters that are located in Southfield.”

“How does that happen?”

“High rentals — difficult conditions — those would have brought receiverships. Rowling, as owner of the properties, gained control. The theaters are paying now that they are under his wing.”

“Indeed.” Cranston’s tone was thoughtful. “This is very interesting, Mr. Granger.”

“Perhaps,” continued the young lawyer. “you thought of automotive supplies because you noticed that local agencies were very few. There is an answer. Rutherford Blogg cracks the whip so far as that form of business is concerned.”

“I suppose,” remarked Cranston, in an amused tone, “that Hiram Marker controls the sale of farming equipment.”

“He does,” declared Granger. “That business is consolidated under the control of Marker’s cousin — a man who is controlled by Marker.”

“Rather odd,” mused Cranston, “that you should mention these facts. I supposed that these gentlemen were clients of yours, Mr. Granger.”

“They are.” Granger’s tone was low as he stopped his car in front of the hotel. “I handle certain of their legal affairs. What I have told you is no betrayal of confidence. I have merely stated facts which any man of your apparent perception would learn after a short while.

“I merely wished to save you time and annoyance. If you intend to invest money in Southfield enterprises, Mr. Cranston, I should advise you to treat with those three men. Make sure that they can share in any ventures which you plan. Otherwise, you may find yourself against unexpected competition.”

“Unfair as well as unexpected?”

“I would not say that. Business men have a right to protect their interests. Those three have reached their high estate through years of effort. They have chosen not to overstress their wideness of activity purely as a matter of policy.”

“I see.”

“My father,” resumed Granger, in a reflective tone, “was closely associated with their rise. I have often felt that he used his influence to curb their policy. His sudden death was unfortunate.

“All three were inclined to grasping tactics. Those became more pronounced after my father was gone. Perhaps Southfield has benefited by the domination of three men. It is difficult to decide just what is strictly ethical in business.

“I feel that Rowling, Blogg and Marker are inclined to oppose the intrusion of outside interests. They are the rulers of this bailiwick. To be fair to them, I think that they might ordinarily warn a stranger to keep out.

“That, however, might be a bad move. Hence their disposition is always a friendly one; and newcomers to Southfield have been unfortunate in business. That, Mr. Cranston, is all that I have to say.”

Norton Granger extended his hand as Lamont Cranston alighted from the car. He received a firm grasp. He caught a pair of keen eyes that seemed to stare through him. Then Cranston turned toward the hotel.

Norton Granger drove away. He felt a strange recollection of those eyes that had met his. Somehow, the personality of Lamont Cranston, despite its quietude, had gained a domination over the young lawyer’s thoughts.

IN the darkness of Room 401, Lamont Cranston stood looking from the window along the main street where late lights still glowed. Shrouded in darkness, he had become The Shadow. A piece of paper crinkled in hidden hands. It was Harry Vincent’s report which The Shadow had just read — the coded statement regarding Slade Farrow’s telegram.

The clothing shop down the street; the Southfield Athletic Club; these were buildings which The Shadow noticed. His keen gaze terminated, however, upon a white, marble-faced building with bronze-barred windows that glistened from a site across the way.

This was the Southfield Bank, owned by Townsend Rowling, biggest of the three. It stood like a citadel — an impregnable stronghold in the city.

A soft laugh rippled through the room. Shuddering echoes answered, then died with ghoulish throbs. Southfield, despite its placidity, was a town where strange events were due.

The Shadow knew!