FROM the terrace apartment where Craig Farnsworth lived, Central Park appeared now as a vast patch of black velvet, studded with jewels of light. It seemed odd, as Margo Lane considered it, how great a change a few hours could produce in that setting.
Even more odd what a few minutes had done back at the Chateau Parkview, where a peculiar drama had developed involving Phil Harley and Arlene Forster, two persons whose connection with an existing mystery had begun too late for Lamont Cranston to learn about it!
While Margo studied the darkened park and also the distant line of buildings to the south of it, Cranston listened to Farnsworth’s discourse on the subject of Ronjan’s treasure quest.
Craig Farnsworth was a big man and emphatic in proportion to his size. He was also a big money man, or he couldn’t have afforded this fancy apartment in a high-priced neighborhood on the upper East Side. But having made his money, Farnsworth wasn’t the man to part with it too quickly.
“Ronjan’s proposal is very simple,” summed Farnsworth, in a scoffing tone. “We’re to put up the extra money, but he is to gain the big share of the treasure. How does that proposition strike you?”
“As a very minor shareholder,” returned Cranston, “I would prefer to hear your opinion, Farnsworth.”
“Quite naturally.” A smile spread over Farnsworth’s broad, ruddy face. “You would only have to contribute pro rata to the loan. If I risked much, you would be willing to risk little. Is that it?”
“That is it.”
“Very well then,” Farnsworth decided. “I shall advance Ronjan all the money he needs” - there was a pause while Farnsworth watched Cranston raise his eyebrows as an expression of surprise - “provided he puts up suitable bond.”
This brought an actual smile from Cranston.
“If Ronjan could post a bond,” he stated, “he wouldn’t need to borrow the money.”
“I said a suitable bond,” defined Farnsworth. “By that I mean that Ronjan should give over ownership in his articulated under-water tube provided he fails to deliver.”
“But failure would prove the tube worthless.”
“Not to my mind, Cranston. I believe the device is thoroughly practical. It may not be suited to present conditions and that is the chance that I am taking. I want Ronjan to share the hazard.”
Cranston understood. Full ownership of the diving tunnel would mean that Farnsworth and any associates could use it for other projects if this one failed. However, Farnsworth still had confidence in the present enterprise.
“We’ve double-checked the story of that treasure off Skipper’s Rock,” declared Farnsworth. “It belonged to Master Glanvil, who owned the brig Good Wind, which was chartered under a letter-of-marque. Unfortunately Master Glanvil turned pirate himself, while he was supposed to be preying on corsairs, much like Captain Kidd did.
“It was on account of what happened to Kidd that Glanvil wouldn’t come into port. Meanwhile, the men who had backed him as a privateer, an Association of Adventurers, they called themselves, saw their investment dwindling away if Glanvil skipped.”
Margo was listening now from the terrace rail, forgetful of Central Park and its mysterious charm, in view of this thrilling tale.
“The Association of Adventurers had their rights of course,” continued Farnsworth. “The treasure was declared legally theirs, the question of Glanvil’s status being another matter. However they unloaded their shares cheap and the whole was bought out by a hard-headed old Dutchman named Thales Van Woort.”
As Farnsworth paused, Cranston put in an appropriate comment.
“A good example, Farnsworth,” said Cranston. “Why don’t you buy out all other shares in the missing treasure the way Van Woort did?”
“Because a fool and his money are soon parted,” returned Farnsworth. “Not being a fool, I prefer to part with my money slowly. Still, if Ronjan wants to sell out entirely, I am willing to buy. But getting back to history -”
Pausing long enough to pour a round of drinks, Farnsworth proceeded.
“Old Van Woort hired a smuggler named Caleb Albersham to go out and urge Master Glanvil to come into port. It was a smart move, for Albersham was close to a pirate in his own right. Maybe the fact that Albersham was still at large was supposed to influence Glanvil, but it didn’t.
“After a few trips, made secretly of course, so the authorities wouldn’t interfere, Albersham went out again and this time he was supposed to have papers on him guaranteeing a safe-conduct to Glanvil. I suppose Van Woort paid for them too, through the proper official channels.
“Anyway, it was too late. A storm was coming up and Albersham’s sloop, the Rover, which left openly that trip, headed square into trouble that the Good Wind had already met. It was a bad wind for the Good Wind, because she went down off Skipper’s Rock and the Rover failed to outride the storm.
“Wreckage from the Good Wind was found on Skipper’s Rock and chunks of the Rover washed ashore out toward Montauk Point, where she was carried by the hurricane. So here’s to the Good Wind and the Rover” - Farnsworth raised his glass - “and salt your drink with a few tears for old Thales Van Woort whose fortune lies off Skipper’s Rock.”
It was the first time that Margo had heard the detailed story of the missing treasure, but she wasn’t crying over Van Woort’s loss. She was thinking of a legend she’d heard once: how mermaids were supposed to hover around sunken treasure, and the connection made her think of the Central Park banshee.
The ringing of the telephone was summoning Farnsworth into his living room and with the conversation lulled, Margo glanced toward the deep gloom of the park, only to hear Cranston’s calm and accurate query:
“Thinking about banshees, Margo?”
“Why, yes.” Momentarily surprised, Margo laughed it off. “I suppose a lot of other people are, too.”
“Miss Sylvia Selmore for one,” informed Cranston. “I forgot to tell you that she postponed her trip to Florida today.”
Still staring at the darkness, Margo asked why.
“Sylvia wants to attend more seances,” explained Cranston. “She hopes for another manifestation of the Gwrach y Rhibyn.”
Remembering the tense scene in the seance parlor, Margo wasn’t inclined to laugh.
“Of course the Canhywllah Cryth must appear first,” assured Cranston. “We saw it again in the park last night. Remember?”
Margo did remember. She shuddered; then asked in hollow tone:
“That creature near the transverse. Did it - did it really materialize when those lights appeared - over there?”
Staring straight across the park, Margo was looking toward the dimly outlined tower of a building, the same one she had noted the night before.
“The right place,” declared Cranston. “In fact the only place the blinks could have come from. That tower is on a direct line with the rear window of the parlor in Madame Mathilda’s house.”
Margo turned, surprised:
“How soon did you learn that?”
“Before we left Mathilda’s,” declared Cranston. “I took a good look from that window after I ripped away the blackout curtain.”
“Then why didn’t you send someone over there?”
“I did. Shrevvy took Hawkeye there to find if the way was clear. Harry Vincent and Cliff Marsland followed.”
“But the blinks occurred again -”
“Because Harry and Cliff sent them,” interposed Cranston, “to assure me that the roost was empty. It worried the lurker in the park. He was stationed where he was to cover the banshee’s trail.”
“But how could she slip through the cordon?”
“Very easily. A slide down the rock, slowed by the scrubby shrubs she encountered; then around to the gully.”
Margo shook her head.
“I don’t think it could be done, Lamont. She would have been seen from the bridge.”
“I’m looking up the proof tomorrow,” assured Cranston, “and until then -”
A change came into Cranston’s eyes. Following their direction, Margo saw something that riveted her, then added a freezing touch. From far across the park, at a new angle, there came another set of mysterious blinks, like those of the night before.
At last, Margo laughed.
“That’s carrying it too far, Lamont. Sending our friends to play the blinker just to frighten me.”
“Except it’s not Harry and Cliff,” declared Cranston. “I would know their signals. Besides, they are watching the park itself tonight.” Cranston’s arm steadied Margo and turned her toward the living room. “Stay here” - the words were an undertone - “and talk with Farnsworth. Tell him I want complete details on the business of the treasure. Take them in shorthand.”
As Margo nodded, Cranston left. Farnsworth was still busy on the telephone, his voice came booming from the next room as he argued with his lawyer over the tax exemptions that were legally permissible on money invested in a treasure hunt.
Despite herself, Margo was back at the terrace rail a few minutes later, but she wasn’t looking for the tiny twinkles that still continued. Margo’s eyes were gazing downward toward this subdued sector of Fifth Avenue.
Imagination maybe, but Margo Lane could have sworn that she saw a cloaked figure glide across the avenue and blend into the foliage of Central Park. This time at least, the illusion wasn’t caused by the chance flit of a passing bird.
The Shadow had appointed himself a one man Association of Adventurers to find out what wasn’t right in Central Park!