The Mobsmen On The Spot

CHAPTER XIX THE FINAL THREAT

HOWARD GRISCOM stared with haggard eyes at the visitor who entered his office. It was fully a minute before he recognized Lamont Cranston.

Griscom smiled feebly. His face was pallid, almost the color of his gray hair. He was a man overburdened with worries.

He tried to rise from his desk, to shake hands. Cranston stopped him with upraised hand.

“I’ve made my decision, Cranston,” said Griscom, in a weak voice. “I’m going through with it — no matter what happens because of Ballantyne!”

His head began to nod; he caught himself with an effort, and regained the dignified expression that was characteristic of his usual bearing.

“You’re fighting it out?” questioned Cranston.

“To the end!” declared Griscom. “I would have yielded if Ballantyne had said the word. But he died with determination. It is up to me to carry on! It’s the only honorable way!”

He paused to stroke his forehead. Griscom’s eyes were half closed; he seemed to be picturing that room where George Ballantyne’s dead body had been discovered.

“It’s a week now,” declared Griscom. “One week since Ballantyne — died. Not a clew to the identity of the murderer! Wilberton called me up the day after the tragedy. He offered condolences. He asked if I would like to see him.

“He expected that I would want the loan, with Ballantyne no longer here. I couldn’t do it, Cranston. Wilberton was amazed. It seemed obvious to him these criminals would stop at nothing to attain their vile purposes.

“He may be right, Cranston. There’s nothing to link the murder with the racketeers. Perhaps” — the old man’s eyes wandered to a photograph of his daughter that stood upon the desk — “perhaps my turn will be next!”

“You mean they may murder you?”

Griscom nodded.

“I don’t think so.” Cranston’s voice was cool and calculating. “One murder is serious enough. They will let it rest — for a while. Then they will try some other method.”

The words seemed to relieve Griscom. He did not notice the ominous tone in which Cranston had uttered his final sentence. The fact that murder might not be attempted was reassuring. Griscom’s dulled mind could consider nothing else.

“Belden came here,” said Griscom. “He came a few days after Ballantyne’s death. He seemed very sorry because of it. He said it was unfortunate.

“He, too, expected that I was ready to quit. He was quite surprised when I told him I would have nothing to do with his association. He called it a legitimate business.

“He is right, Cranston, on the face of it. We cannot prove a thing against him. Still, I am convinced that he is working with the murderer!”

“Police methods,” observed Cranston quietly, “are sadly lacking in many important ways. They are unable to cope with a situation like this one. Yet this racket may be ended — soon!”

“How?” Hope gleamed in Griscom’s eyes as he spoke.

“That is a mystery,” returned Cranston, with a thin smile. “I can say that I am positive of one fact. Before this week is ended, the theater racket will be doomed!

“It is the last hope of a master mind who is seeking to continue his evil ways. One by one, his rackets have been ended.

“The police have another failing. They attribute different rackets to different men. They have not yet discovered that a billion-dollar business cannot persist unless it is organized.

“They are dealing with a crime syndicate, with one racketeer at the head of it — a man protected by innumerable precautions.”

“This sounds incredible, Cranston! If it is true, how can the master mind be detected?”

“THROUGH the murderer of George Ballantyne! The archenemy is sparing no effort to recuperate from his other losses. His hand controlled the warehouses — the garages — other businesses.

“When he saw his rackets fading, he sought to gain mastery over the most notorious racket in New York. He intended to govern the dock wallopers. In that, he failed!”

“Who has been fighting him?”

“Some unknown person with a brain as keen as his own. But this super-racketeer is cunning. His plans for the theater racket were developing slowly.

“The man who is opposing him evidently thought” — the faintest trace of a smile flitted, unnoticed, across the speaker’s lips — “that the collapse of the dock racket would temporarily set back all the menacing schemes. But there, the czar of all rackets struck instead of being cautious.

“Ballantyne’s death was the result. His one plan, now, is to dominate the theaters. He is staking everything. You, instead of Ballantyne, are now his stumbling block!”

“I am proud of it!” declared Howard Griscom. “It may mean a great sacrifice — perhaps death. Nevertheless, I shall remain firm!”

“I admire your decision,” said Cranston. “I feel confident you will succeed. Wait, and keep up your courage.

“Before a few more days have passed, the racket may be doomed. Like the others, it is due to end suddenly — at the time when least expected.”

Howard Griscom seemed encouraged by the words. He raised himself from the desk and stood erect by the window, staring down into the street. The door opened and his daughter entered.

Arline was beautiful to-day. She bowed politely to Lamont Cranston; then walked forward to greet her father. With his arm on the girl’s shoulder, Howard Griscom walked into the outer office, while Arline spoke consolingly.

Alone, Cranston picked up the telephone and called a number. He said only one word: “Report.”

As he listened, Cranston’s eyes sparkled. Important news was coming to his ears. When he had finished the telephone call, he hung up the receiver and left the office.

He bade good-by to the Griscoms as he left. Arline remained with her father for several minutes. Then she, too, departed. The old man was alone.

The afternoon slipped by. Howard Griscom remained a pathetic, solitary figure; a man whose conscience was free, but whose mind and soul were torn by doubt and indecision.

Arline had been there at noon. It was nearly four o’clock when Maurice Belden called to see the theater owner. Griscom received him.

Belden’s very appearance was deceiving. He was tall and well-dressed. His waxed mustache gave him a dandified appearance. His eyes were watchful and shrewd.

This afternoon, he seemed more crafty than ever. He sat down at the opposite side of the desk from Howard Griscom.

“It’s no use, Belden,” said the elderly man. “I’m not going to even consider your proposals. I—”

He paused to answer the telephone, which had begun to ring. Belden watched him, with catlike stealth.

“Arline?” questioned Griscom. “Yes? What!” His face turned ashen. “I can’t believe it! Tell me — where are you now? What’s that? If I say a word it may mean death — to you? Arline! Arline!”

HE joggled the receiver. The call had come to an abrupt ending. Griscom laid the instrument down mechanically. His eyes had become dull and listless. He was like a man in a trance.

“What is the matter?” inquired Belden.

“My daughter has been kidnapped,” replied Griscom, in a far-away voice. “She says that I must tell no one. That she will be released if I do as I am expected to do.

“She warned me to keep the news from the public. Otherwise, it will mean — her death — without delay!”

“I can scarcely believe it, Mr. Griscom,” said Belden sympathetically. “Yet there is hope. She says if you do what you are expected to do—”

“What am I expected to do?”

“I expect you to place your signature here!”

Belden drew a paper from his pocket. He laid it on the desk. It was a contract of the Theater Owners Cooperative Association.

Griscom’s eyes became suddenly defiant as he read the title.

“So that’s the game!” he cried angrily. “I understand it now! If I sign—”

“I believe your daughter would be safe,” interposed Belden suavely. “There are many criminals who fear our organization because of the work it is doing to aid our clients. If you were known as a member of the Cooperative Association, with all your theaters in line, I doubt that any one would dare to harm your daughter.”

“She would be returned to me?” Griscom was almost pleading.

“Eventually, I should suppose,” declared Belden. “With your membership established in our association — with the regular payment of your assessments — your prestige would reach a remarkable height. I feel positive, Mr. Griscom—”

“You want me to betray my trust!” said Griscom coldly. His eyes were those of a maniac. “I do not care for your promise or your threats! I shall call the police—”

“It would be very unwise,” said Belden firmly. “Take my advice, Mr. Griscom. Sign that paper!”

Wearily, Howard Griscom lifted a pen. Then came his remembrance of Lamont Cranston’s words. “Wait and keep up your courage.”

Should he wait? Could he wait?

Griscom closed his eyes. To his fevered mind came the image of George Ballantyne. He could see the body of the murdered man, pointing a finger of accusation. The thought was dominating.

Griscom fumbled for the telephone. Maurice Belden was talking, persuading. Griscom did not heed him. He called police headquarters.

“You can’t do that!” exclaimed Belden. “Remember what your daughter said. Remember!”

Griscom’s eyes were open now. They were staring wildly. Reaching suddenly into a desk drawer, his hand came out holding a small revolver, which he aimed at Belden. The man recoiled in fear.

“Police headquarters?” came Griscom’s far-away voice. “This is Howard Griscom. Paladrome Theater Building. My daughter has been kidnapped. I must see detectives immediately. Can you send them to my office—”

The phone fell from his hand as he dropped back in his chair.

Belden was aghast! He had not anticipated this action. Now the damage was done! Belden had expected Griscom to yield. Now, it was too late!

There was but one course a break for safety. Belden was neither gunman nor murderer. He was a smooth talker who kept away from trouble. Now was his opportunity. Taking advantage of Griscom’s stupor, Belden fled from the room, governed only by his desire to escape before the police arrived.

THE final editions of the evening newspapers carried a sensational story. Cliff Marsland read it in amazement as he stood on a street corner. Arline Griscom’s picture appeared beneath sprawled headlines.

Howard Griscom had told his story, briefly and pathetically.

The murder of George Ballantyne had been discounted as a racket plot by the police. Arline’s kidnapping could not well be treated in the same manner.

The newspapers had lifted the lid, and were publishing Griscom’s accusations. Detectives were at work, seeking to trace the girl from the time she had left Griscom’s office. The sleuths were experiencing no success.

Cliff turned back to Larchmont Court as he read the newspaper. He was sure that Killer Durgan had a hand in this.

He had investigated Durgan’s apartment at The Shadow’s order. He had been instructed to follow any clew that might lead to Durgan’s whereabouts.

So far, Cliff had gained no results in that work. He had been seeking information in the underworld, chiefly through Dave Talbot and Patsy Birch. No news had been obtained.

The Shadow was at work, Cliff was sure. He believed that the man of the night was following subtle clews, and that agents whom Cliff had never met were operating. For Cliff had been instructed to make telephone calls only at stated times.

The clock outside of Cliff’s window showed half past eight when he reached his room. The electric sign flashed with its border pursuing an intermittent course.

Nine thirty would be the time for his next futile report. If no answer should be received, the orders were to call half hourly thereafter.

Cliff felt a surging antagonism toward Killer Durgan. He wanted to find the man — quickly.

The telephone rang. Cliff answered it eagerly. He gasped as he heard Madge’s voice!

He wanted to cry out in elation. He had hoped for this. He had wondered if Madge knew that he was still alive. He had even wondered if the girl was still living.

“Cliff!” Madge was speaking quickly. “I’ll tell you where I am. Near as I can get it. Old house somewhere near Ninety-sixth Street. West of Broadway. One block between me and the river is a big apartment. Electric ball on top of it. Goes around and around. Saw it tonight.

“I’m locked in” — the girl seemed breathless — “locked in on the fourth floor. Fire escape comes up the back. You can make it from there — to a hall that has a torn window shade. No windows here.

“Durgan has let me look out when he’s around. He’s out now. I’m in a little room like a cell. Found a telephone. Durgan has it hidden.

“Help me, Cliff! There’s another girl here, too. Durgan means trouble. He’s mad! Hurry, Cliff—”

The call ended. Cliff realized that something had made Madge alarmed. Her instructions were definite enough to start. She had said “another girl.” That fitted Cliff’s suspicions.

Could it be Arline Griscom, kidnapped daughter of the theater owner? It must be!

Twenty minutes of nine. Could he afford to wait precious minutes, to send a message to The Shadow? Perhaps there would be no response that would mean a wait of another half hour.

No! Time meant too much, right now. One thought predominated Cliff’s mind. He was sure that the girl he loved was threatened with danger from Killer Durgan. The alarm in Madge’s voice left no room for doubt.

He must go to the rescue at once!