The Romanoff Jewels

CHAPTER I. A MILLIONAIRE ENTERTAINS

As the huge limousine swung up the gravel drive and stopped beneath the porte-cochere of a large, graystone mansion, it would have seemed to the casual observer that there was no one in the rear seat of the car.

But the chauffeur opened the door as though he expected some one to get out.

“We are here, Mr. Cranston,” he announced. “This is Mr. Waddell’s home, sir.”

Shadows in the back seat resolved themselves into a figure which moved languidly, as though aroused from a reverie. The owner of the car arose in leisurely fashion, and stepped from the limousine.

“Very good, Stanley,” he said to the chauffeur. “You made excellent time coming here. Be back by half past eleven.”

A footman was approaching from the door of the house. The chauffeur spoke to the attendant.

“This is Mr. Lamont Cranston,” he said. “To see Mr. Waddell.”

“Will you come with me, sir?” the footman asked Cranston with a bow. “Mr. Waddell was expecting you, sir. I shall announce your arrival.”

As the limousine pulled away, Lamont Cranston and the footman ascended the steps. Inside the door of the sumptuous residence, the servant went ahead to announce the visitor.

Beneath the mellow glow of the hall lights, Lamont Cranston made an imposing figure. He had removed his coat, and now stood attired in immaculate evening clothes. The somber black of his garments accentuated the tallness of his stature. His figure was both imposing and ominous.

Lamont Cranston possessed a remarkable face. His features were cold-chiseled, firm, and masklike. His deepset eyes sparkled keenly; they, alone, added animation to that inscrutable countenance. Motionless as a statue, silent as a phantom, he seemed a veritable figure of mystery.

Yet stranger even than the form itself was the shadow that it cast. Stretched across the rug-covered floor lay a long patch of darkness that commenced from the feet of the man and terminated in an elongated silhouette— the profile of Lamont Cranston. The very atmosphere seemed charged with the eerie silence of a seance room. It betokened the presence of the unknown.

A MAN appeared at the other end of the hall. Short and stout, with a rolling gait, he made a ridiculous figure as he hurried across the floor. This was Tobias Waddell, the millionaire host, who was coming to welcome his guest, Lamont Cranston.

“Glad to see you, Cranston,” was Waddell’s greeting. “Sorry you were held up. Come right along with me — right along. Want you to meet my friends.”

The tall visitor joined the millionaire, and the two returned by the path over which Waddell had come.

They entered a large reception room, where a dozen men and women were gathered. Waddell introduced the new arrival.

It was obvious that Lamont Cranston had arrived too late for the function which had taken place that evening. The party had reached an informal stage. So, after the introduction, Waddell and Cranston stood aside and chatted.

Noting the way in which Cranston’s steady gaze turned and centered upon different persons present, Waddell spoke in an undertone, acquainting his friend with facts concerning those individuals in whom Cranston seemed to display a passing interest.

“Marcus Holtmann,” informed Waddell, as Cranston observed a short, sour-visaged man who was the center of a small group. “Gave us an interesting talk tonight on Russia. Just came back from there, you know.

“Engineering contracting — that is his line. Talked a lot about the Five Year Plan. Must have learned a good bit over there — more than he tells—”

The speaker broke off as he saw Cranston watching a portly man who was listening to Holtmann.

“Parker Noyes is my attorney,” remarked Waddell. “I believe you met him on your last visit here. Very capable man, Noyes. It was he who introduced me to Holtmann.”

As Cranston chanced to glance toward a corner of the room, Waddell nudged him and indicated a tall, handsome man.

“Popular young chap,” observed Waddell. “Met my daughter at Noyes’ house some time ago, and has come here frequently. Name is Frederick Froman. Very agreeable personality. Appears to have a lot of money. Different from that fellow Tholbin.”

With the mention of the second name, the stout millionaire directed Cranston’s attention to a sallow-faced young man who was standing beside the grand piano. Betty Waddell, the millionaire’s daughter, was seated on the piano bench. She and Tholbin were engaged in conversation.

“David Tholbin,” mused Waddell. “Wish I knew more about him. He’ll be proposing marriage to Betty, first thing you know. He follows us too much when we travel. Seems to have some money — how much, I don’t know. Sort of an adventurer, I figure.”

It was obvious that the millionaire judged men by their wealth. Lamont Cranston, himself a multimillionaire, was a highly honored guest, gauged by Waddell’s standard.

Without speaking or giving visible notice of his action, Cranston made a calm comparison of the two young men whom Waddell had last indicated in the conversation.

The two formed a marked contrast. Froman, with light hair and complexion, possessed a frank face.

Tholbin, sallow and black-haired, appeared as a shrewd schemer.

Yet of the pair, Froman was the more dynamic. He was one of those men whose age is difficult to determine. The firm set of his chin showed something of the mental force that lay behind.

FOUR men had been pointed out to Lamont Cranston. They were men of varied sorts. Marcus Holtmann — a man of business; Parker Noyes — a sedate lawyer; Frederick Froman — a gentleman of leisure; David Tholbin — a young adventurer. Their purposes in life were different. Chance, tonight, had made them guests at the same social function.

That same chance had brought a fifth visitor in the person of Lamont Cranston. He was the one who observed; and his keen, piercing eyes were ferreting hidden secrets.

With it all, Cranston possessed a remarkable aptitude for concealing his own actions. Not one of the four sensed the interest that he was taking in them.

Strolling leisurely across the room, Lamont Cranston joined the group that was listening to Holtmann. The sour-faced man was answering questions. His brief, terse phrases came to Cranston’s ears.

“Five Year Plan — gigantic idea — yes, I spent six months in Moscow — vast natural resources in Russia — wealth in back of it — many reports are based upon lack of authentic information—”

Another man had joined the group. The newcomer was Frederick Froman. He displayed a purely passive interest in the discussion. He lighted a cigarette, roamed leisurely away, and returned. His second approach took place as Marcus Holtmann was ending the discussion.

“Well, gentlemen,” declared the man who had been to Russia, “I feel that I have talked enough for this evening. I can only say that my experiences were interesting and enlightening. They proved to me that one cannot judge conditions in Russia by a short visit only. Now that I am back here, I am more interested in America. My stay in New York ends tonight.”

“You are leaving for the Middle West?”

The question came from the lawyer Parker Noyes.

“For Chicago,” replied Holtmann. “My train goes at midnight. I must leave here in ample time to stop at the hotel on the way. I am staying at the Belmar.”

“You will have to leave by eleven o’clock,” observed Noyes.

Holtmann nodded.

The group broke up as the conversation ended. Only Lamont Cranston remained.

He smiled as Tobias Waddell approached him. He walked to the side of the room with the millionaire, and the two sat down in chairs that were drawn side by side.

It was there that Parker Noyes joined them. The lawyer, grave and gray-haired, was a man of important bearing. Both he and Cranston listened to Waddell’s talk, but their eyes were not directed toward the speaker.

Cranston, his clear eyes covering the whole scene, watched Frederick Froman as a footman entered and delivered a message to the blond-haired man. Froman went from the room, evidently to answer a telephone call.

Cranston’s gaze shifted to Marcus Holtmann. Noyes, however, was observing another individual. He was intent upon David Tholbin, who was still engaged in ardent conversation with Betty Waddell.

Froman returned. Cranston glanced at his watch. It showed ten minutes of eleven. Cranston turned to Waddell.

“The telephone?” he questioned. “I have just recalled that I must call the Cobalt Club—”

The millionaire summoned the footman. Then, rising, Waddell conducted Cranston to the door of the room, and indicated the direction. He instructed the servant to show Mr. Cranston the way. A few minutes later, Cranston was alone in a small room, speaking into the mouthpiece of a desk telephone.

“Ready, Burbank?” he questioned.

Evidently the reply was an affirmative one, for Cranston continued with instructions.

“Belmar Hotel, eleven thirty,” he declared. “Midnight train, Grand Central Station, destination Chicago. Marsland to cover at hotel as ordered. Vincent to cover at station as ordered.”

Lamont Cranston hung up the receiver. He stood motionless in the center of the room, his tall figure producing a mammoth shadow. Then the splotch of blackness dwindled as he advanced to the door. A few minutes later, Lamont Cranston was again seated beside Tobias Waddell.

JUST before eleven, Marcus Holtmann came over to say good-by to Tobias Waddell. He shook hands with Cranston and Noyes; then made his departure.

No one seemed to express a noticeable interest in Holtmann’s leaving. The man had stated that he must leave before eleven; hence his departure was brisk and businesslike. Lamont Cranston observed that fact. He turned his attention to the remaining guests.

Parker Noyes was still chatting with Tobias Waddell. Frederick Froman was seated in a corner, alone, contentedly puffing a panatella. David Tholbin, apparently oblivious to everything, was engaged in earnest conversation with the millionaire’s daughter.

A few minutes before half past eleven, Tholbin approached Waddell to announce that he was going in to New York. The millionaire received him rather gruffly, but Tholbin ignored the fact. Lamont Cranston, however, spoke cordially:

“My car will be here shortly,” he said. “I should be pleased to take you in to New York—”

“Thanks,” returned Tholbin. “I have my own car outside. Always drive in and out, you know.”

With that, he turned and headed for the hall. Cranston watched him, then turned his head to see Frederick Froman standing close by. The light-haired man had approached while Tholbin was saying good-by to Waddell.

“You are leaving soon, Mr. Cranston?” Froman’s question came in a quiet, even voice.

“Yes,” replied Cranston.

“I should appreciate the same invitation,” declared Froman. “I do not have my car here tonight.”

“I shall be glad to accommodate you,” responded Cranston.

Almost immediately after he had spoken, the footman entered the room to announce that Mr. Cranston’s car had arrived. Cranston shook hands with Waddell and turned questioningly to Parker Noyes.

“You are going into the city?” he asked.

“No,” replied the attorney. “Mr. Waddell has asked me to remain here overnight. Business, you know—”

“I understand.”

Cranston shook hands with both Waddell and Noyes. Accompanied by Froman, he went to the porte-cochere.

The chauffeur must have seen him, for the big limousine pulled up from the driveway. As its headlights spotted the men by the door, Cranston’s shadow formed a long, weirdly changing shape upon the drive.

Froman, chancing to glance downward, was fascinated by the strange, vague streak of blackness.

Then the limousine was beside them. All traces of the oddly shaped shadow had vanished. The two men entered the door of the car. Soon the lights of Waddell’s home were obscured by the huge hedges that surrounded the millionaire’s estate.

Little was said as the limousine rolled Manhattanward. Froman told Cranston his destination — an address in upper Manhattan — and Stanley was instructed to drive there.

There was something ominous in the silence that hung within the luxurious limousine. Only the luminous spots of cigar tips showed that the two men were awake, each concerned with his own thoughts.

Though both were introspective, and neither gained an inkling of the other’s notions, it was more than a coincidence that both should have been thinking of one man.

For Lamont Cranston and Frederick Froman, though differing in plans and purposes, were concentrating deeply upon the activities of a single individual who had been a guest at the home of Tobias Waddell.

They were thinking of Marcus Holtmann, the man who had just returned from Russia.