The Mobsmen On The Spot

CHAPTER XIV GRISCOM SEEKS AID

IN the center of a great private office, a man sat alone at a massive desk. He was a strange, solitary figure, in the midst of commodious surroundings.

Everything in the room betokened wealth and influence — from the huge, expensive rug to the oak-paneled walls. The place was obviously the headquarters of a man of great importance — and the man was Stanley Wilberton, banker and financier.

It was he who was sitting at the desk, quietly engaged in a study of legal documents that lay before him.

The door opened at the far side of the room. It closed noiselessly. A man approached the desk. He came across the room with slow, mechanical stride, almost as though he were approaching a shrine in the midst of a temple.

Although there was no sound of the man’s approach, Stanley Wilberton looked up as he arrived before the desk.

“What is it, Crowley?” he asked, in deliberate tones.

“Two gentlemen to see you, sir.” Crowley spoke in a level, monotonous voice. The tones were in keeping with the man’s appearance. His face was placid and changeless in expression.

“Who are they?” questioned Crowley.

“Mr. Howard Griscom, sir; and a Mr. Cranston, who is with him.”

“Humph! I don’t know that I can see them, Crowley.”

“Mr. Griscom says that it is urgent, sir.”

Wilberton looked directly at his secretary.

They formed a remarkable pair, these two men — the great financier and his confidential secretary. Wilberton had often spoken of Crowley as his right hand. Crowley was indeed a master of efficiency, although he dealt in few words.

There was something in the words that he had uttered that Wilberton understood without further questioning. Mr. Griscom had said that an interview was urgent. Unless that statement had impressed Crowley, the secretary would not have repeated it. Crowley was always right. Mr. Griscom’s mission must be urgent.

“I shall see Mr. Griscom,” declared Wilberton.

Crowley bowed and retired. A few minutes later, Horace Griscom, pale-faced and visibly worried, entered the room, accompanied by Lamont Cranston.

Griscom’s companion showed no signs of worriment. His expression was as fixed as it had been that night at Griscom’s home. Cranston showed no great interest in the surroundings.

The luxury of Wilberton’s office had impressed many men of means who had entered. Lamont Cranston seemed merely to take it for granted.

Crowley was with the visitors. He drew up two chairs before the desk. The men seated themselves.

Crowley remained, but did not sit down. He stood at the side of the desk, staring at Stanley Wilberton as though he were the financier’s familiar demon, awaiting whatever orders might be given him.

AFTER a few minutes, Stanley Wilberton pushed the documents to the side of the desk. Crowley leaned forward and began to arrange them in neat piles.

The financier paid no attention to him. He looked up and studied his visitors with a sharp gaze.

“Good morning, Griscom,” he said tersely.

“Good morning, Mr. Wilberton,” replied Griscom. “You remember Mr. Cranston?”

“Yes.” Wilberton dismissed the greeting with a single word. “What brings you to see me, Griscom?”

Howard Griscom shifted in his chair. He felt ill at ease in the presence of the great financier. He invariably sank to inferiority when he met Stanley Wilberton; yet, somehow, he usually managed to receive consideration from Wilberton.

“I have come in reference to the theatrical merger,” explained Griscom. “You will recall that I was approached by a representative of the Theatrical Owners Cooperative Association — in reference to paying money to what we considered to be a racket.”

“Yes. I recall it.”

“Since then,” continued Griscom, “the situation has become more acute. The merger is even more necessary than before. We must float our loan.

“At the same time, the vague suggestions made by the representative of the Cooperative Association have become tangible activities.”

“In what way?”

“In malicious attempts to harm our theaters,” declared Griscom. “In one outlying theater, the cashier was held up and the box office robbed. In another larger house, an unexplainable accident occurred in the projection booth. It nearly caused a panic.

“There have been other troubles which have been hurting our business. Yesterday, for the first time, we were able to apprehend one person who appears to have been a trouble-maker. He was observed entering the theater by a manager who happened to be there.

“The manager recognized him as having been present the night of the trouble in the projection booth at the Eagle Theater — which was where the accident had occurred.

“An usher watched this suspicious character, and the man realized that he was under observation. He left the theater hurriedly and was pursued.

“He was trying to throw something away when he ran around the corner. He was captured after a chase of several blocks.”

Stanley Wilberton exhibited a slight sign of curiosity, as he gazed at Griscom.

“What did he have?” he questioned.

“Nothing,” replied the theater owner. “We took him to the police station. He was searched. His pockets contained nothing but small change, a package of cigarettes, a wallet, and a few other ordinary items.

“Whatever he tried to dispose of was gone. We searched thoroughly over the path which he followed. We found nothing. We were forced to let the man go.”

“A mistake, evidently,” Wilberton concluded.

“I DON’T think so, Mr. Wilberton. The man gave his name as Tony Peretti, although he did not look to be Italian.

“We were able to trace his actions before he entered the theater. He had been in the Turin Cafe, a small Italian restaurant downtown, for lunch. He had spent the afternoon in another theater — a ticket stub in his pocket indicated that fact.

“When we questioned the proprietor of the Turin Cafe, he said that he knew the man’s face — that Peretti came there nearly every day, and always ate alone at a corner table.”

“What kind of a place is the restaurant?” questioned Wilberton sharply. “Do racketeers frequent it?”

“No,” replied Griscom. “It has an excellent reputation—”

“It is a very fine restaurant, sir,” interposed Crowley, the secretary. “I go there occasionally. In fact, I expect to eat lunch there to-day. The Turin serves the best Italian food in New York. That is my opinion.”

Stanley Wilberton laughed dryly.

“Well, well, Crowley,” he said. “I am glad to see that you have some interest other than your work here.

“Perhaps you may be able to help Griscom in his dilemma” — there was a touch of ridicule in Wilberton’s voice — “perhaps you have seen a man named — what was that name, Griscom?”

“Tony Peretti.”

Crowley shook his head methodically.

“I never recall meeting such a person, sir,” he said.

Stanley Wilberton laughed good-naturedly at the seriousness of his secretary. He turned again to Howard Griscom.

“This is a very trivial matter,” he said.

“No, Mr. Wilberton,” protested Griscom. “It can be very serious. Business has been badly hit at the Eagle Theater since the accident in the projection booth. We had been having capacity audiences — now the theater is only half filled.

“It has had a slight effect upon other theaters of our chain, and any similar occurrence would be disastrous. The Paladrome — our largest theater, you know — would be badly hit if any trouble started there.

“There is no doubt about it, Mr. Wilberton. We are being subjected to a systematized form of terrorism — and we are virtually helpless.”

“Have you been able to link the Theatrical Owners Cooperative Association with these disturbances?”

“No. It appears to be a one-man organization. The representative, Maurice Belden, is manager, also. He has a small office — we have had detectives watching it. He seems to be working alone — independent of the disturbers.

“He is too wise for us. He has made his position secure by actually signing up a few independent theaters. He is running what appears to be a legitimate business. We cannot touch him!”

“He must be controlling it all,” declared Wilberton. “He’s the man to watch.”

“He is not the man to watch.” The statement came from Lamont Cranston, hitherto silent. “I have told Mr. Griscom that there is some one higher up. He is right when he states that Belden is working independently.”

“Bah!” exclaimed Wilberton impatiently. “These racketeers are all alike. Clever, but all for themselves.”

“That is incorrect,” declared Cranston. “The most important rackets are controlled by some one above.

“You should recognize that fact, Mr. Wilberton. You — a great financier — control many enterprises because they are profitable. Rackets are profitable enterprises. There is some one who controls them.”

Wilberton laughed contemptuously.

“This is indeed enlightening!” he exclaimed. “A racket syndicate! A wonderful idea, Mr. - er — Mr. Cranston. Something that exists — in your mind, only. I advise you to follow up that idea. It might mean millions.

“Meanwhile” — he looked at Howard Griscom in an annoyed manner — “I have too many important matters to concern me to spend time discussing the minor problems of the theatrical business!”

“One moment, please, Mr. Wilberton,” pleaded Howard Griscom. “I have told you this, simply to find out if you would still consider that loan — if we should satisfactorily end our present difficulty.

“If this thing keeps on — particularly if we have trouble in a theater such as the Paladrome I shall have to yield to the persuasion of the Theatrical Owners Cooperative Association. The interests of the stockholders will compel me—”

WILBERTON interrupted him with a wave of his hand. Griscom became silent while the financier turned to speak to Crowley. The secretary was standing by in a deferential manner.

“I shall not need you any longer, Crowley,” remarked Wilberton. “You may leave now. Do not return until after lunch — and be sure to take care of those matters I mentioned this morning. We had not quite finished with our discussion, but I think you now understand what should be done.”

“Yes, sir,” replied Crowley solemnly.

He bowed and walked from the room. Lamont Cranston had been eyeing the inscrutable face of the secretary. He watched Crowley as the man left.

“I did not wish Crowley to be here,” said Wilberton. “He attends to detail work for me, but knows nothing about my plans.

“Regarding the loan, Mr. Griscom, I can assure you and Mr. - er” — he motioned toward Cranston — “your friend here, that I am quite willing to furnish the money when you have settled the menace that now threatens your business.”

“Ballantyne is the stumbling block,” replied Griscom. “I see the menace now; he refuses to see it. I cannot act until Ballantyne is willing. But, perhaps—”

“Perhaps,” supplied Wilberton, as Griscom paused, “new troubles may cause Ballantyne to become less obstinate. I sympathize with him and with you, Griscom. These rackets are bitter pills to swallow, and I cannot blame you for your stand.

“I agree with opposing them, in theory; but it is impossible to oppose them when they become facts. It is an outrage, but—” He shrugged his shoulders in completion of the sentence.

Howard Griscom arose. He knew from Wilberton’s manner that the interview was ended. He and Cranston said good-by to the financier. They left the building and rode in a cab to Griscom’s office.

“I am glad you were with me, Cranston,” said Griscom soberly. “The condition is much more serious than I mentioned to Wilberton. Vandals have broken into two of our theaters, and have wreaked much damage.

“I don’t like to give in, but I must think of those whose interests are at stake. If Ballantyne—”

Cranston was staring straight ahead, apparently deep in thought. As Griscom ended his sentence abruptly, Cranston spoke as though in meditation.

“Strange fellow, isn’t he?” he said.

“Who? Ballantyne?”

“No.”

“Wilberton?”

“No. Crowley.”

“Wilberton’s secretary?” responded Griscom. “Yes. He has been with Wilberton many years. His confidential secretary, you know.”

“Yes; that very fact makes me wonder” — a vague, questioning smile appeared upon Cranston’s rigid lips — “wonder why Wilberton sent him away.

“It was all right for Crowley to be there long enough to understand everything that we were discussing. After he had gone, Wilberton said nothing that Crowley had not heard.”

Howard Griscom nodded. The matter seemed very trivial to him. So much was at stake that it annoyed him to hear Cranston refer to such unimportant matters. The cab stopped near the Paladrome Theater. The men stepped out.

“Will you come up to the office?” asked Griscom. “I am going out to lunch in a few minutes.”

“Thank you. I have an appointment.” Lamont Cranston shook hands with Howard Griscom.

When the theater owner had gone, Cranston stood on the sidewalk, idly watching the passing automobiles that crowded the vicinity of Times Square.

Suddenly, his eyes became keen. He turned into a drug store, consulted a phone book, and returned to the street. He hailed a passing taxi.

“Turin Cafe,” he said. “Fourteenth Street, west of Sixth Avenue.”

FIFTEEN MINUTES later, Lamont Cranston entered the little Italian restaurant. There were not many people in the place. He studied various tables, and finally noted one in a far corner. He went to the table and sat down, after studying the position of the chairs.

Keen and observant, Cranston had quickly decided that this must be the very chair that Tony Peretti had been wont to occupy.

The waiter came, and Cranston gave his order. He sat with folded arms, as though considering a great problem. His keen eyes centered first in one place; then in another. At last they were focused upon the table, with its square glass top fitted above a dark cloth material.

Lamont Cranston drew an envelope from his pocket. He inserted a corner of the envelope between the glass top and the table. The envelope slid into the thin space. Holding its only projecting corner, Cranston moved the envelope back and forth along the edge of the table.

As if by magic, written words appeared upon the envelope!

Some one had written in pencil upon the glass top of the table. The words were totally invisible against the dark surface beneath until the presence of the white paper revealed them.

The words looked as though they were on the envelope; actually they were the fraction of an inch above it.

“Saturday. Three o’clock. Brantwell’s. Forty-second Street.”

This was the message Lamont Cranston read. He removed the envelope from beneath the glass and thrust it in his pocket. He was thoughtful for a minute; he did not appear to notice the waiter when the man brought a plate of spaghetti.

Lamont Cranston laughed softly, and his repressed mirth had an eerie sound. He took a bill from his pocket and laid it beside the check that the waiter had placed on the table. He arose and walked from the restaurant.

He strode down the street, toward the avenue. As he went along, he laughed again.

His laugh was low and inaudible a few feet away; yet it still possessed that chilling tone.

It was strangely like the laugh of The Shadow!