The Red Blot

CHAPTER XVI THE SHADOW PREPARES

AT the very time that Socks Mallory was thinking of such important personages as Ralph Weston and The Shadow, a visitor was being ushered into the office of the New York police commissioner. Weston, seated behind the huge glass-topped desk in his downtown office, was looking up to meet the keen eyes of Lamont Cranston. The millionaire was an unexpected caller.

“Hello, Cranston,” greeted Weston briskly. “You caught me at a very busy time. What can I do for you?”

“Nothing, since you are busy,” returned the millionaire, with a quiet smile. “I merely dropped in to learn if you could lunch with me at the Cobalt Club. I have not forgotten” — Cranston’s voice had a reflective monotone — “the interesting events of our last meeting.”

“At the Club Janeiro,” responded Weston, “Quite a difference between that place and the Cobalt Club. If you crave the unusual, Cranston, I should advise you to choose a more likely spot than an exclusive meeting place such as the Cobalt Club.”

“The Hotel Gigantic, for instance?” queried Cranston.

Weston smiled grimly, Cranston had given a keen refutation to the commissioner’s suggestion. The reputation of the Hotel Gigantic allied it more closely with the Cobalt Club than with the Club Janeiro.

From a man other than Lamont Cranston, Weston might have resented the inference. The police commissioner, however, had a respect for Cranston; and also recalled the aid which the millionaire had given him only two nights ago.

“You have me this time,” admitted Weston. “Frankly, Cranston, this matter of The Red Blot is one which may crop out anywhere. Nevertheless—”

Weston paused. He was on the point of discussing affairs with Cranston. The police commissioner had just returned from a visit to the offices of the Amalgamated Builders’ Association. He had warned all concerned to preserve absolute secrecy regarding tonight’s arrangements.

Lamont Cranston was lighting a cigarette. His keen eyes, peering past the illuminated lighter in his hand, were reading a penciled notation that lay upon the commissioner’s desk. A clever ruse, this. With the flame between himself and Cranston’s face, the commissioner could not detect the direction of the millionaire’s gaze.

“We may be getting somewhere,” remarked Weston, in a noncommittal tone. “Doubtless, you have read of the latest outrage perpetrated by The Red Blot. This time, we are awaiting a definite follow-up on the part of the criminal.”

“Collection of the five-million-dollar ransom?”

“Exactly. That in itself, will be another crime — if The Red Blot attempts it. Until then — whenever it may be — I am too tied up to arrange luncheon engagements. Thanks for the invitation, Cranston—”

“Don’t mention it,” interposed the millionaire, rising and extending his hand. “The invitation remains open, Weston. Let us set it for the day after The Red Blot has been brought to justice — and let us hope that the day will be soon.”

LAMONT CRANSTON betrayed no smile when he descended in the elevator. The brain behind that impassive, masklike face was considering the very definite facts which this casual visit had revealed.

To an ordinary person, the notations on Commissioner Weston’s pad might have meant nothing. To The Shadow — guised as Lamont Cranston — they had supplied all missing information needed in this case.

Abbreviated references to “conference room,” “Amalgamated Building,” a time notation of nine thirty, the names of Hembroke and Cardona — these were clews to the very matter which The Shadow wished to learn at this time.

Taking a cab, Lamont Cranston rode to the vicinity of the Amalgamated Building. This was the skyscraper which housed the offices of the Amalgamated Builders’ Association. Of recent construction, the building was modernistic in design. Its mighty mass pyramided from the street, in tapering, set-back fashion, which was capped by a tower-like succession of topmost floors.

Leaving the cab, the millionaire entered the building and rode up to the fifth floor. He entered the anteroom of the Amalgamated Builders’ Association. He inquired for Dobson Pringle. The girl informed him that the president had gone out to lunch. It was now twelve fifteen, and he had gone out at noon.

The observant eyes of Lamont Cranston were busy as the girl spoke. Peering through the glass partition that separated the anteroom from the office itself, Cranston noted the simple arrangements.

There were many desks upon the floor, and the farther end of the room was divided into smaller offices, which served for the chief officials of the organization. In the corner directly opposite the anteroom was the solid wall of a room which cut a square chunk from the floor space. There was a single door to this apartment. Upon it were the words:

Lamont Cranston idled toward the elevators after remarking that he would call to see Dobson Pringle at some other time. He rode down to the street and strolled along for half a block, before he turned to study the pyramided structure from this distance.

He noted the exact location of the office which he had left. A thin, wan smile rested upon his lips. Lamont Cranston suddenly joined the throng of people who were passing. From then on, his course was untraceable.

SOME time afterward, a light clicked and darkness was dispelled from a solemn, hushed abode. Blue rays flickered upon a polished table top. White hands appeared beneath the focused glare. The brilliance of the sparkling girasol threw off constant color-changing flashes.

The Shadow was in his sanctum. The clock was not upon the table this afternoon. There was time for deliberation. Envelopes opened; clippings and reports fell beneath The Shadow’s hands.

Most of the latest data dealt with the mystery that had occurred in the Hotel Gigantic. The Shadow laid these clippings aside. They told the same story — an amazing abduction; a demand for five million dollars. They cried out the name of The Red Blot, and shouted for the capture of the supercrook.

But not one report carried the essential information regarding tonight’s meeting at the Amalgamated Building. That had been suppressed by Commissioner Weston.

The Shadow laughed. His hand began to inscribe words in bluish ink upon a blank sheet of paper. These notations were a summary of his conclusions.

The words remained in view for a short while; then, like fleeting thoughts, they began to disappear. One by one, in the order of their writing, the words vanished and left the pure blank sheet. Again, the whispered laugh of The Shadow sounded ominously in that black-walled room.

The hand inscribed a new paragraph:

The words vanished as The Shadow again indulged in a burst of sinister mockery that came back in vague echoes from the weird hangings of the walls.

Another envelope was opened by the hands. It contained a report sheet, written in coded words. The Shadow read the message as quickly as if it had been in ordinary writing. The blue-inked inscription disappeared.

That was the way with The Shadow’s messages. By use of a special fluid, the ink, after drying, vanished from contact with the air. This was a note from Harry Vincent, one of The Shadow’s agents.

OLD clippings were handy with the message. They referred to one event: the strange disappearance of Hubert Craft, prominent architect, whose upset boat had been discovered in Long Island Sound some weeks ago.

Harry Vincent, investigating, had learned nothing. Craft frequently went to his Long Island boathouse and set forth upon the Sound. One night the boat had gone out. It had not returned. Craft had been in New York during the evening. He had not been seen since that time.

What had become of Hubert Craft?

The Shadow answered the question in enigmatic fashion. His hand appeared with a pen, and the fingers, with a quick shake, sent a blob of crimson ink upon a blank sheet of paper. The ominous fluid spread in grotesque form, and shone amid the light from above.

The Red Blot!

The disappearance of Hubert Craft had preceded the appearance of that insidious symbol. The discovery of The Red Blot, himself, would answer the other question. Hubert Craft and The Red Blot! There was an indelible link between them!

What did The Shadow intend to do?

Mystery had thickened; five million dollars was at stake. Two men had been abducted: Selfridge Woodstock and his secretary, Crozer. This meeting at the conference room of the Amalgamated Builders might hold the secret of the riddle. Would The Shadow be there?

The hand wrote with the blue-inked pen. But the thoughts which it inscribed were in direct opposition to what might well have been expected. There was no mention of the meeting to be held tonight. The duty of watching that event could rest with the police.

Instead, The Shadow announced his secret intention of investigating a spot where he had been before; of going back upon a trail which the law had now abandoned. In carefully shaped characters, the hand inscribed this decision:

The writing remained while silence persisted. The inked lines faded. The girasol sparkled as the left hand alone remained upon the table. The bluish light clicked out.

Amid the thick gloom of heavy darkness came a long, eerie laugh. The Shadow’s mockery sounded with its note of sinister understanding. It was a token of the unexpected; the cry of one who prepared a thrust into the weakest sector of the enemy’s lines.

Grim echoes caught up the awesome mirth and lisped the sound in sobbing whispers that persisted long. When the last touch of merriment had died, deep, solemn silence reigned undisturbed.

The Shadow, man of the night, had gone. From the depths of this mysterious abode — his unknown sanctum — he had set forth upon a new adventure.

While others chose to meet the menace of The Red Blot face to face, The Shadow planned a different course. Where The Red Blot least expected serious difficulty, there would The Shadow be!

Ominous had been the Shadow’s laugh. The tomblike stillness of the deserted sanctum carried a touch as sinister. A weird lull lay within this room. The weird presence of The Shadow had left its mystic spell.