CRANSTON ACTS
HOWARD GRISCOM and Lamont Cranston had visited Stanley Wilberton before noon on Friday. Late Saturday morning, approximately twenty-four hours later, Griscom was surprised when Cranston again paid him a visit.
“I suppose you leave here at noon,” remarked Cranston, when he had seated himself in the theater owner’s private office.
“Not often,” replied Griscom. “Saturday is usually very busy. I expect to be here all afternoon. Will you accept that deferred invitation to lunch?”
“I shall be glad to do so.”
Cranston sat looking from the window. Griscom’s office was on the third floor of the Paladrome Building. It commanded a view of Forty-second Street toward Times Square.
Across the street, near the corner, was a store that bore the sign “Brantwell’s.” It was one of a chain of Manhattan drug stores.
Lamont Cranston noticed the store; he also watched the passing throngs with curious eyes. He turned to Griscom, and seeing that the theater owner was not engaged for the moment, he remarked:
“You have motion-picture photographers available, I suppose?”
“I can get a camera man in fifteen minutes,” replied Griscom.
“This would make a very interesting picture,” remarked Cranston, pointing from the window. “Saturday afternoon at Times Square.
“Hundreds — thousands of people, each moving with some different thought in mind. A great crowd, all engaged with their own thoughts, oblivious of those who are watching them.”
“You’d like a picture of it?” asked Griscom, with a smile. “Suppose that I obtain a camera man after lunch.”
“Excellent,” said Cranston.
“I’m going to be here evenings as well as afternoons,” said Griscom. “You know, Cranston, the Paladrome is our greatest theater. It is in the heart of New York.
“I am apprehensive — I have been so since yesterday. The very fact that we are worrying about the prestige of the Paladrome makes me believe that the racketeers may have an eye on it also.”
“What are you doing to offset them?” Cranston asked.
“What can I do? We have detectives in the lobby. We are watching suspicious characters. Ballantyne is watching, too. He is downstairs in the theater office.
“He is in and out of the Paladrome all the time. Nevertheless, we cannot watch every patron who enters the theater. That would be impossible.”
Griscom received a telephone call that he had been expecting. He and Cranston went out to lunch.
IT was after two o’clock when they passed the entrance to the Paladrome Theater on their way back to Griscom’s office. The theater owner pointed out two detectives in the lobby.
“They’re watching every one who comes in,” he said. “But at best, it’s only a makeshift. We may have a chance to apprehend a trouble-maker after the damage is done; hardly before.
“I’m worried, Cranston. Something is going to strike; and we’ll be helpless.”
In the office, Griscom recalled his promise to Cranston. He called up a camera man, and the photographer said that he would be over within fifteen minutes.
The man arrived at the time specified. Griscom introduced him as Bud Sherman. Cranston pointed out the panoramic view of central New York.
“Suppose we wait a while,” he suggested. “The Saturday-afternoon crowd is increasing. Set your camera to take in a diagonal view of the street, so we can get the direction from which the crowd is coming. About there” — Cranston pointed diagonally across the busy thoroughfare — “where that drug store is located.”
“Brantwell’s?” questioned Sherman.
“Yes.”
While Bud Sherman was setting up the camera, Arline Griscom entered the office. The girl smiled pleasantly at Lamont Cranston, who bowed in return. She spoke to her father; then she noticed the camera, and asked why it was there.
“Mr. Cranston thought a picture of Times Square would be interesting,” explained Griscom, with an amused look on his face, “so I provided the camera man.”
Cranston had turned to the window.
“The throngs are increasing,” he remarked. “There seem to be a great many people coming toward the theater. I would suggest, Mr. Griscom, that you advise the men in the lobby to be very alert. Saturday afternoon is a time to expect trouble.”
“What is the matter, daddy?” questioned Arline.
“Nothing, dear,” replied Griscom. “I am going down to the theater office. Come along with me. It is nearly three o’clock. The feature picture starts in fifteen minutes.”
As Griscom and his daughter left the office, Cranston spoke to Sherman.
“Shoot,” he said. “There’s a good crowd, now.”
Sherman obeyed in businesslike fashion. He started the mechanism of the camera, which was trained through the open window. His eyes were roving along the street. He did not notice what Lamont Cranston was observing.
Within a few seconds after the camera began to make its record, a short man in a black coat stopped in front of Brantwell’s window and began an idle inspection of the display that was on exhibit. The man’s back was turned toward the street. His face was not visible.
STILL watching the man who had arrived, Cranston went to the telephone on the table near the window. He called a number. It was evidently near by, for the exchange was the same as the one listed on Griscom’s telephone.
“Hello,” said Cranston. “This is Mr. Cranston. Has the man I expected arrived in my office? He’s there now?” He paused an instant, then added: “I don’t follow you… Oh, yes; tell him to wait. I’ll stop over to see him. I’ll be there shortly; after I see Mr. Griscom in the theater lobby.”
Bud Sherman heard the conversation and paid no attention to it. He did not notice the peculiar emphasis that the speaker had placed on certain words.
“Man there now. Follow him. Stop him in the theater lobby.”
That was what Lamont Cranston had told the listener at the other end of the telephone.
All the while, the speaker kept his eyes on the window across the street, where the idler was standing motionless, gazing at the display, unconscious of the fact that he was within the range of a motion-picture camera.
Cranston was deliberately calling another number — also the same exchange. He received an answer, and began an ordinary conversation that continued for about a minute. Then, again, his words took on a peculiar emphasis.
“I’ll see you at the meeting; I’m taking Harry’s place. Yes, I’ll go on Monday afternoon. It will be my second trip there. Good-by, old man.”
The hidden message was: “Meeting taking place. Go after second man.”
As Cranston delivered it, smoothly and effectively, his words were timed with an event that was occurring across the street.
Another man had swung out of the crowd. The first sign that marked him as different from the other passers was the fact that he also turned to look in Brantwell’s window, so that only his back was visible.
He stood there, close behind the first man, who could not see him. His hand slipped in the pocket of his blue overcoat. He brought forth a small object.
Stepping forward, as though to avoid persons who were crowding him, he let his hand rest against the pocket of the black overcoat that the first man was wearing.
The blue-clad man moved away immediately. His hand was empty. Lamont Cranston could see his face, but even those keen watching eyes could not distinguish the features clearly at so great a distance.
Cranston’s gaze returned to the first man, who was still looking in the window. The fellow began to shift restlessly; then he, too, sauntered away. Cranston caught a glimpse of a dark-visaged countenance.
Both men were lost in the crowd. Lamont Cranston was staring indifferently from the window. The camera man spoke to him.
“Just about the end of the reel,” he remarked. “Do you want me to take another shot?”
“That’s sufficient,” said Cranston.
When the camera man had gone, Cranston remained by the window. He acted as though he might be expecting some unusual news.
Fifteen minutes passed. The telephone rang. Cranston answered it. He heard the excited voice of Griscom.
“That you, Cranston? Can you come down to the theater office? The detectives stopped two men who were causing a disturbance in the lobby! They brought them into the office! Ballantyne is talking to the men now! I should like to have you see them!”
CRANSTON went down in the elevator. Between the entrance to the office building and the theater itself was a cigar store. He stopped there and purchased several packages of cigarettes — each of a different popular brand. He placed them in various pockets.
He went on to the lobby of the theater and gave his name to the doorman. An usher led him to the office.
When Cranston entered, he found George Ballantyne quizzing two men who sat before him. Ballantyne was speaking to one in particular, a quiet, well-dressed young man, who seemed quite at ease.
“You say your name is Clyde Burke,” said Ballantyne. “What do you do?”
“I was formerly a newspaper reporter,” replied the young man. “At present I conduct a clipping bureau and engage in free-lance journalism. This little occurrence to-day is quite unusual. It might make a good newspaper story for—”
“Mr. Burke,” interrupted Ballantyne, in a worried tone, “we are not trying to put you to any inconvenience. We are merely asking you to cooperate with us.
“There have been some er — disturbances in our theaters. We are watching all who enter. You had an encounter with this man in the lobby—”
“I did,” interposed Burke. “I jostled him accidentally. He became angry. I saw his hand go to his pocket. I became excited, thinking that he might be drawing a gun. I grabbed him.
“Then these men of yours” — he pointed to two detectives who stood solemnly by — “took hold of us and brought us here.”
“Would you mind if we searched your pockets, Mr. Burke?”
“Not in the least.” Burke emptied the contents of his pockets on the desk, and a detective followed with a search. Nothing suspicious came to view. Burke returned the articles to his pockets.
Ballantyne turned to the other man. This individual was short in stature, and wore a cheap black overcoat. His face was sullen and swarthy. In viewing it, Ballantyne could hardly blame Burke for having been suspicious of the man.
“What’s your name?” questioned Ballantyne.
“Marschik,” was the reply. “Steve Marschik.”
“What’s your story?”
“This fellow” — Marschik pointed to Burke — “ran into me outside of here. I wasn’t doing nothing. I thought he was crazy. Sure thing I did.
“It ain’t right, you know, accusing me of trying to put up a fight with him. I’m out of work — nothing to do — got a little money. I want to see the pictures — that’s all.”
He began to empty his pockets. A few envelopes and letters, a pocket comb, a package of cigarettes. He laid the objects on the table. A detective ran through the man’s pockets.
Lamont Cranston had stepped forward. He glanced casually at the articles on the desk. He picked them up carelessly and put them back again.
“All right,” grunted the detective.
Marschik replaced his few belongings. Both he and Burke appeared a bit disgruntled.
Ballantyne smoothed matters.
“Neither of you paid admission,” he said. “You are quite welcome to see the show as our guests. You understand, gentlemen, that this disturbance was caused by yourselves, and that we merely requested your presence here.”
“It’s all right with me,” said Burke.
“All right,” agreed Marschik.
The men left. The detective followed.
LAMONT CRANSTON remained with Howard Griscom and George Ballantyne. The two theatrical men became engaged in a lengthy discussion.
“This can’t go on,” declared Griscom. “We must use common sense, even if it goes against the grain. These racketeers are—”
“What about them?” questioned Ballantyne impatiently. “You exaggerate the situation, Howard. These two men to-day — neither of them can be considered a suspect.
“Your detectives, planted in the lobby, become overzealous. They see a menace in a slight altercation. Do you agree with me, Cranston?”
In reply, Lamont Cranston reached in his pocket and brought out a package of cigarettes. It was unopened, and still bore its cellophane covering. He laid it on the desk and began to take off the outer wrapper.
“A very unsuspicious article,” he said. “Simply a package of cigarettes. This fellow who called himself Steve Marschik took it from his pocket a short while ago—”
“I saw him put it back,” interjected Ballantyne.
“You saw him put back another pack,” declared Cranston quietly. “I had a similar pack in my pocket. I exchanged it for his. This is the one that Marschik was carrying.”
The package was opened. Two cigarettes slid out and fell on the table. Cranston picked up one and tore the end from it.
Instead of tobacco, flakes of a yellowish powder poured on the table. Cranston swept them into an empty ash tray and examined the substance closely.
Ballantyne and Griscom watched him in amazement. Cranston moistened the tip of his finger and touched the powder. He brushed his hands and stepped back.
The powder began to sizzle. A thin, gaseous smoke arose. A pungent, sulphuric odor pervaded the office. Ballantyne started toward the door.
“It’s all right,” assured Cranston. “It’s over now; I used only a small quantity. You can imagine the result, if the contents of a few of these cigarettes had been poured into a paper cup partly filled with water. The fumes would have gone through the entire theater and—”
“I’m going out to the lobby!” exclaimed Ballantyne. He rushed from the office.
“Too late,” declared Cranston.
Ballantyne returned with Babson, the theater manager, a minute later.
“Marschik cleared out,” he said. “The detectives let him go. He said he didn’t want to see the show.”
He turned abruptly to Cranston.
“If you suspected this,” he demanded, “why didn’t you tell us?”
“I do not act on suspicion,” replied Cranston. “I utilize facts when I am sure of them.
“You had no proof of any criminal action on the part of Marschik. When Mr. Griscom told me that the suspect at the Eagle Theater carried nothing more alarming than a package of cigarettes, I thought it would be wise to examine the next package that might be discovered on a suspicious person.
“Marschik will trouble you no more. He has failed in his mission. But there will be others — more dangerous, perhaps, than Marschik.”
“Unless,” interposed Griscom severely, “we yield to demands!”
“Never!” exclaimed Ballantyne. He brought his fist fiercely against the table. “So long as I can prevent it, our theaters will not pay a cent to that gang of crooks.”
He turned abruptly and left the office. Griscom followed him, with the theater manager.
Only Lamont Cranston remained. He stood there, imagelike in his pose, his eyes staring steadily at the wall. He was thinking — not of the past, but of the future.
He was visioning the events that were to come!