BURBANK GIVES INFORMATION
The downstairs telephone rang in Lamont Cranston’s home. Richards answered it. He recognized the millionaire’s voice. He called Burbank.
The quiet wireless operator waited until the valet had left the room where the phone was located. Then he repeated the word that had come from Harry Vincent. He could tell that his employer was making notes of the information.
“All right,” came the voice from the receiver. “Stay at my house, Burbank. I won’t be home to-night.”
Lamont Cranston emerged from the phone booth at the Cobalt Club. He nodded to a friend who was passing. He went to the checkroom for his coat and hat. He also took a package that he had left.
The clock above the door showed twenty-five minutes of ten. Lamont Cranston glanced at it. His face betrayed no definite expression, but he murmured two words as he left the building.
“By midnight.”
A limousine was waiting near by. The millionaire stepped in, and snapped an order.
“Move rapidly, Stanley,” he said to the chauffeur. “To the airport.”
The chauffeur nodded. A light drizzle was falling, and the street was slippery. But the powerful car moved speedily. The chauffeur found a street where traffic was light, and the automobile turned in the direction of the Holland Tunnel.
The rider in back was thinking. His mind was connecting events and piecing ideas together. Yet he remained totally silent. He seemed lost in the darkness of the car.
The limousine narrowly missed colliding with a truck. The silent passenger did not move. He said nothing to the chauffeur. Stanley grinned as he stared through the windshield.
“Funny,” he muttered. “A couple of weeks ago the boss was nervous when he rode with me. That was just after he came home from a trip. Now look at him! Not a word — and that was a close one, all right.”
The limousine roared through the Holland Tunnel. It whirled along the New Jersey highway at amazing speed.
Stanley had been a racing driver; but it was seldom that he was given opportunity to show his ability. He was at his best to-night.
The man in the back seat of the car opened the package which he carried. It contained various articles — most important were a black cloak, and a broad-brimmed hat. Lamont Cranston inspected them; then he wrapped them up again.
They were at the airport. The millionaire alighted, and stepped into the drizzle. A wind was blowing, but he did not seem to mind it.
“Take the car home, Stanley,” he said.
The chauffeur’s jaw dropped, as he displayed his amazement.
“You — you’re not going up, to-night, sir?”
“Yes. Take the car home.”
Stanley drove away, muttering to himself. He knew that his employer frequently traveled by airplane. In fact, Lamont Cranston had his own ship, and frequently hired an aviator to take him on trips.
The millionaire had a pilot’s license, but only operated a plane in the best of weather. Stanley hoped that he would have a good man on the job to-night.
The millionaire stopped at the hangar. He spoke to the man in charge.
“It’s a bad night,” was the comment he received.
Lamont Cranston nodded. Then he intimated that he was in a hurry.
His plane was ready. He climbed into it alone.
The motor roared, and the ship left the ground. It headed toward the northeast, and was swallowed in the black sky.
The visibility was very bad. The men on the ground shook their heads at the foolhardiness of the flight. They knew very little of Lamont Cranston’s ability as a pilot, and they were doubtful.
“Hope he can use his compass,” said one. “I wouldn’t like to be in his place.”
The plane carrying Lamont Cranston hummed over Manhattan, the glare of the city’s lights smothered by the falling rain.
The wind whistled through the fuselage; the air was bumpy as the ship sped on through the increasing storm. Yet the pilot seemed indifferent to the threatening elements. He seemed like a shadow, in the cabin of the plane.