THE newspapers were loaded with a story of a man named Winslow Ames who had disappeared most peculiarly and Lamont Cranston was reading all about it, much to the annoyance of Margo Lane, who had other things to talk about. At last Lamont laid the newspaper aside.
“It’s time you apologized for last night,” broached Margo. “I thought we were going to a night-club. Instead, you left me parked at Farnsworth’s.”
“Sorry, Margo,” Cranston returned. “I was detained longer than I anticipated.”
“In Central Park?”
“In Central Park.”
Eyeing Cranston as though she didn’t believe him, Margo gave the reason.
“It wasn’t so very long before all those blinks ended,” the girl declared. “Nor was it long after that, when I heard the whistles and the sirens and saw a lot of lights that must have meant police cars because they went so fast. So you couldn’t have been banshee hunting very long” - Margo’s gaze narrowed - “unless perhaps you found the banshee.”
“No banshee,” said Cranston, with the slightest of smiles. “I was checking on the lights. They came from different places.”
Margo nodded.
“I know,” she admitted. “I saw them from Farnsworth’s terrace.”
“Some were messages,” Cranston analyzed, “while others were just signals. Whoever is delegated to send them is working it cutely. One batch from one place; then he goes somewhere else. They must have learned that I sent men to track down the lights, the first night.”
Margo began to realize that Lamont could have been quite busy hunting clues to the lights, without wasting any time around the banshee pool. Besides, there were no reports today of any gorgeous femininity having created a new stir among the lilacs, the night before.
“But how do they get away with it?” queried Margo. “People just can’t go up to the top of apartment buildings and start flashing lights.”
“Can’t they?” queried Cranston. “Have you ever tried it?”
Margo shook her head.
“It’s easy,” assured Cranston, “when you have a mile or more of buildings to pick from. Lots of them have open roofs where the tenants go in hot weather and their friends come up to visit them. Some buildings have service elevators and there are all sorts of excuses such as delivering packages, that would allow a trip to the top floor.
“Besides, those flashes weren’t all from top floors; a lot of them were just high up. They didn’t have to come from apartments; but from corridor windows that opened in the right direction. So you can be quite sure that none of those lights really represented the Canhywllah Cyrth.”
“Particularly since the banshee didn’t reappear,” agreed Margo. “But you said some of the blinks were messages. How did you know?”
“I worked at decoding some that flashed the other night,” Cranston explained. “The first glimmers that showed this evening fitted with the code. It said something about the Parkside House and there was another word, rather hard to make out.”
“Have you any idea what it was?”
“I have now. The word was a name. It spelled Ames.”
Margo’s eyes widened.
“You mean the disappearance of Winslow Ames was ordered by those signals, Lamont?”
“It was. I was lucky enough to pick up the trail of two cabs outside the Parkside House. Their actions were suspicious, so I had Shrevvy follow them.”
“And one contained Ames!”
“Very probably. Its route was a throw-off. It doubled around a few blocks and then back to Central Park. The police haven’t yet supposed that a trail would go back to where it started from” - Cranston gestured to the newspaper - “so they are still trying to trace Ames to Penn Station.”
All this left Margo rather amazed and with it brought the situation back to its starting point. Where last night was concerned, Cranston had a complaint of his own, so he introduced it in timely fashion.
“Up at Farnsworth’s, recalled Cranston. “I left you there for a purpose, Margo. You were supposed to gather a detailed report regarding the treasure hunt off Skipper’s Rock.”
That threw Margo on the immediate defensive.
“Why, I did -”
“Did what?” put in Cranston. “Moon at Central Park over Farnsworth’s terrace? Maybe Reilly saw your beaming face shining down from above and blew his whistle as a matter of routine.”
Margo’s face was roundish, like the moon’s, but that was only because she was trying to glare. From her purse, she produced a notebook and planked it down hard.
“There’s the report,” she announced, “all in shorthand. Mr. Farnsworth dictated it between telephone calls. I didn’t want to be impolite, so I went out on the terrace when he talked to people. Shall I read the notes?”
“A good idea,” decided Cranston, blandly, “but let’s proceed in a leisurely manner. Suppose we go over to the park and hire ourselves a barouche or whatever they call those open carriages. You can read the report while we take a drive.”
Fifteen minutes later, the clatter of a horse’s hoofs formed the obligato to Margo’s monotone rendition of the shorthand notes.
The details were pretty much as Cranston knew them, particularly as Farnsworth’s summary was honest and impartial. Condensed, it ran as follows:
The history of the Good Wind, sunk off Skipper’s rock with the treasure brought back by Master Glanvil, pirate pro tem, was well authenticated, in fact verified by the records that concerned the visits of the sloop Rover, owner Caleb Albersham, to the moored brig.
Perennially, treasure seekers had visited Skipper’s Rock in hope of reclaiming the sunken wealth that should have been the property of Thales Van Woort, last and only member of the Association of Adventurers. If the treasure had ever been brought ashore, it would have become Van Woort’s, or a legacy to his heirs; but sunk at sea, it belonged to anyone who could execute a successful salvage.
No one could, because the Good Wind was sunk too deep.
Thus the treasure situation had remained static while the world progressed until Niles Ronjan, an inventor of peculiar genius, had devised his articulated tube, a water-tight tube that could descend to submarine depths and allow access to sunken vessels.
It sounded simple, this business of shoving a pliable pipe-line down to the bottom of the sea, but the actual process produced complications. Money was needed to finance the undertaking; this, Craig Farnsworth had provided.
In so doing, Farnsworth had invited others to share in the undertaking; Farnsworth’s reason was that he wanted to be sure the project was a sound one. At the same time, economy was the watchword and Ronjan had agreed to abide by it. When the sectional tube neared its goal, Ronjan had hired Dom Yuble, an accomplished Caribbean diver, to go down and steer the creeping tunnel into place.
Dom Yuble should have been hired earlier.
The diver’s report showed that sand had buried the Good Wind. To get at the sunken vessel a new attempt was necessary from the other side. From that point, Farnsworth’s notes became queries.
Would the project be worthwhile?
Could it be that sand had buried the Good Wind completely, making Ronjan’s invention useless?
Was Ronjan entitled to a larger share because of the increased investment, or should the added cost be charged against him because he had failed to hire Dom Yuble earlier?
Farnsworth had answered those questions. In his opinion, he should still receive the major share. Apparently, Ronjan was agreed, but if so, Farnsworth felt that Ronjan himself should defray the added cost.
This brought up another question: Why not let Ronjan pay it? From that came a further query: Did Ronjan have the money?
Farnsworth claimed yes to both.
Then why hadn’t Ronjan undertaken the entire project on his own?
Easily answered, that question. In Farnsworth’s opinion, Ronjan had wanted others to bear the freight in case of failure. It was time that Ronjan admitted the fault and until he did, Farnsworth wouldn’t put up another penny. That was final and it ended the report.
Amid the clatter of the horse’s hoofs, Margo looked up from her notes and said:
“Do you know what Farnsworth really thinks?”
“I’m interested,” replied Cranston. “So tell me.”
“Farnsworth thinks that he can outlast Ronjan,” declared Margo. “Farnsworth has to pay rent anyway, up at that de luxe apartment of his. But Ronjan can’t live forever at the Chateau Parkview; he’s staying there only while the treasure hunt is on. So Farnsworth thinks that Ronjan will have to come around begging sooner or later - and probably sooner.”
It pleased Margo when she saw that Cranston was responding with a nod. Getting Lamont to admit anything was quite a feather for Margo’s cap, except that she wasn’t wearing a cap and therefore couldn’t put feathers in it.
Cranston proved that when he countered:
“Do you know what I think?”
Margo shook her head.
“I think,” decided Cranston; “that it would be a lot of fun to take a ride on a merry-go-round. We’ll stop right here and try it.” He gestured to the driver indicating that he wanted the carriage to stop. “I’m sure it would clear our minds of a lot of problems, Margo.”
Right then, Margo Lane decided that she’d like to have her mind cleared of one specific problem, by name Lamont Cranston, whose idea of fun was something Margo didn’t think was funny.