The Red Blot s-31

by Maxwell Grant

  “The presence of police officials in the conference room, or any attempt to violate the terms provided above, will mean an immediate ending of negotiations.”

  Dobson Pringle stared aghast as he completed the reading of the message. The others were on their feet, asking excited questions.

  “What is the signature?” came one query.

  Neither Dobson Pringle nor Felix Cushman answered. As though in reply, Pringle let the paper flutter from his fingers. It became a target for anxious eyes as it rested upon the table. Astonished gasps followed.

  Beneath the red-inked lines was no signature; yet the paper contained a sign of identity that every witness recognized. Splattered there was the crimson blotch of which all had heard - the sign of The Red Blot!

  MEN looked at one another in bewilderment. This amazing message, coming so soon after the departure of Selfridge Woodstock, was a veritable bombshell. It was Dobson Pringle, the voluble, gray-haired president of the association, who first broke the tension with a statement that expressed the feeling of most of the men.

  “This must be a hoax!” he asserted, with a weak attempt at a belittling laugh. “Selfridge Woodstock was here with us only a few minutes ago -“

  “Hoax or no hoax,” interjected Felix Cushman sternly, “it is both a threat and a demand. It may mean danger for Woodstock. He should be informed about this at once!”

  With mingled anger and apprehension upon his sharp-featured face, Cushman strode to the telephone and called the desk. The others listened to his words.

  “Felix Cushman calling,” the man said. “Chairman of the Amalgamated Building directors, meeting on the twenty-fourth floor… Yes, this is Mr. Cushman himself… A gentleman has just left our meeting… Yes, going down in the elevator. His name is Selfridge Woodstock, of Chicago… Accompanied by his secretary. He may be in the lobby now… Tell him he must return at once. Page him immediately!”

  Still maintaining his anxious expression, Felix Cushman faced the other men while he stood with the telephone in his grasp. Long minutes moved by; there was no further response across the wire. It was obvious that the paging of Selfridge Woodstock was bringing no result - the man was gone!

  The feeling of uneasiness was becoming an expression of alarm. Worried looks passed among the assembled group. These men realized that some unseen enemy might be at work; that on the eve of success in their fifty-million-dollar negotiation, they faced utter ruin of all their plans.

  Instinctively, eyes were lowered toward the table. There, with its insidious inscription, lay the message that had caused this consternation.

  A hoax?

  None believed it now. With the increased tension of the dragging minutes, every man realized that the crimson-penned note was an ultimatum from The Red Blot!

  CHAPTER XIV

  THE CRIME UNSOLVED

  “PAGING Mr. Selfridge Woodstock!”

  The bell boy’s repeated cry was passing through the huge lobby of the Hotel Gigantic. It was echoed, now, by other callers; for the urgency of Cushman’s request had caused the clerk to use every possible effort in finding the Chicago financier.

  The paging was unnoticed by a short, solemn-looking man who was standing in a corner of the lobby. Although it was this individual’s duty to watch for unusual events in the hotel lobby, he saw nothing out of the way in a bell boy’s call. The solemn-looking man was Belville, senior house detective of the Hotel Gigantic.

  “Hello, Belville.”

  This quiet greeting was more important to the house detective than the loud paging of Selfridge Woodstock. Turning, Belville recognized the keen, firm-chiseled countenance of Detective Merton Hembroke.

  “Hello, Hembroke,” returned Belville. “How come you’re here tonight?”

  “Still looking for Socks Mallory,” confided Hembroke.

  “The killer that’s working for The Red Blot?” queried Belville, in an awed tone.

  “That’s the guy,” answered Hembroke. “I’ve got a hunch, Belville, that he’s living high. Joe Cardona’s after him, too; but he’s got stools working in the East Side. That’s not my idea. I figure that Socks Mallory is playing ritzy.”

  Belville nodded. He held a great respect for Merton Hembroke, coming ace of the New York City detective force.

  “This isn’t the first swanky hotel lobby I’ve been in tonight,” added Hembroke. “You can believe it or not, Belville; I’m going to cross Socks Mallory’s path one of these nights.”

  Belville grinned approvingly.

  “Paging Mr. Selfridge Woodstock - Mr. Selfridge Woodstock -“

  Hembroke noted the cry and turned to Belville with a questioning air.

  “What’s going on?” he asked. “They were paging that fellow Woodstock when I came into the lobby. Rather unusual - all this racket - isn’t it?”

  As if in answer, a bell boy approached and spoke to the house detective. Belville was wanted at the desk. Hembroke followed as the houseman went in that direction.

  “Something’s happened,” the clerk told Belville. “We just got a call from the twenty-fourth floor to get hold of a man named Selfridge Woodstock. Now there’s a report that Elevator No. 9 is stopped on the eighth -“

  Belville nodded and started toward the elevators. Hembroke kept with him. Another house detective joined them in an empty elevator. Belville ordered the operator to make for the eighth floor in a hurry.

  WHEN the trio stepped from the car, they found four hotel guests clustered in front of the open door of Elevator No. 9. They were holding the limp form of a uniformed operator.

  “What’s happened?” demanded Belville.

  “Saw the boy lying here,” responded one of the guests. “Knocked out. Look at him.”

  “Take care of this, Belville,” ordered Hembroke, “I’m going up to the twenty-fourth to find out about this man Woodstock. Get in touch with me right away.”

  The detective entered the waiting elevator and was whisked upward. One minute later, he strode into the room where the directors of the Amalgamated Builders’ Association were still gathered. He spied Felix Cushman at the telephone.

  “You’re calling about a man named Woodstock?” queried Hembroke.

  “Yes,” returned Cushman anxiously. “Have you traced him?”

  “No. There was trouble on an elevator. I’m Detective Hembroke from headquarters. What’s the trouble?”

  Dobson Pringle, stepping forward, handed The Red Blot’s note to Hembroke.

  The detective’s eyebrows furrowed. “The Red Blot!” he exclaimed. “How long ago did Selfridge Woodstock leave here?”

  “Not much over ten minutes,” informed Pringle.

  “Where was he going?” quizzed Hembroke.

  “To the Grand Central Station,” declared Pringle, “To take the Bar Harbor Express.”

  Hembroke seized the telephone. He jiggled the hook, gained the operator’s attention, and put in a call for detective headquarters.

  “Abduction suspected at Hotel Gigantic,” said Hembroke tersely. “Selfridge Woodstock, of Chicago, on way to Grand Central to get the Bar Harbor Express. Cover there at once… ”

  He paused to gain a quick description of Woodstock from Cushman; also to learn that the financier was accompanied by his secretary.

  “… Elderly man,” added Hembroke, over the telephone. “Gray hair… Accompanied by young man… Secretary… Send squad to Gigantic Hotel… Elevator operator found unconscious.”

  HEMBROKE’S call was the beginning of a swift investigation. One hour later, the directors of the Amalgamated Builders’ Association still sat in session; but a new man was at their head. Police Commissioner Ralph Weston had taken this room as his temporary headquarters.

  Three other representatives of the law were present. Inspector Timothy Klein, full-faced and solemn, was seated beside the commissioner. Detective Merton Hembroke, alert as ever, was standing near the table. A new figure had appeared: that of a stocky, swarthy man whose visage was firm set and deter
mined.

  This was Detective Joe Cardona, whose reputation as a go-getter was fading in favor of Merton Hembroke.

  The door of the room was closed. Police Commissioner Weston spoke freely as he fingered the red-inked message which had come as an ultimatum from The Red Blot.

  “There is no doubt about it, gentlemen,” asserted Weston frankly. “Selfridge Woodstock has been abducted by The Red Blot. The elevator operator has given us full proof of that. He was struck down when Woodstock and his secretary entered the car on the twenty-fourth floor. He was unconscious when he was removed from the stopped car at the eighth.

  “We have searched every floor of the hotel, from basement to roof garden. The search is still on, but we have gained no trace of Selfridge Woodstock. In spite of Detective Hembroke’s fortunate presence in this very hotel, and the promptness with which this case was handled, we are forced to admit that The Red Blot has baffled us.

  “This, gentlemen, is a terrible climax to a series of bold crimes. Nevertheless, its very magnitude has given us an opportunity to treat with the supercriminal who is known as The Red Blot. The abduction of Selfridge Woodstock is but his first step. According to this message, he plans another - the collecting of five million dollars from your association.”

  The commissioner paused to read over the terms of the ultimatum. Then, in a serious tone, he set forth a definite proposition.

  “Gentlemen,” he said, “The Red Blot demands that you hold a meeting in your conference room tomorrow evening at nine thirty, there to deliver the required sum to his agent. That meeting is as important to the law as it is to you. Before I decide upon my action, let me ask what you would intend to do about it.”

  Weston looked from one director to another. He singled out Felix Cushman and Dobson Pringle as the ones who would naturally act as spokesmen. Cushman was the first to respond.

  “Five million dollars is a large sum, commissioner,” he said. “Nevertheless, it is but ten per cent of the amount which Selfridge Woodstock intends to supply to us.”

  “With Woodstock, we gain fifty million; without him, we lose that amount. Somehow, The Red Blot knows our situation. If we could guarantee Selfridge Woodstock’s release, I would say that the accomplishment would be worth the payment of five millions.”

  Audible gasps followed Cushman’s statement; nevertheless, the directors were forced to give their nods of approval.

  “Cushman is right,” declared Dobson Pringle. “He is right, so far as monetary consideration is concerned. But how are we to assure ourselves that this is not a hoax; that Woodstock will actually be released?”

  COMMISSIONER WESTON drummed the table thoughtfully. At last, he spoke in a decided tone.

  “This case,” he announced, “involves the most amazing method of demanding ransom that I have ever known. Usually, people are told to put money in some outlandish spot. But here is a criminal who announces his intention of sending his representative to a scheduled business meeting.

  “Obviously, The Red Blot’s agent will walk into a trap. I would suggest that you assemble to meet him, as required. We, the police, can take care of the rest.”

  “An excellent suggestion,” observed Dobson Pringle. “You mean that you will have men stationed close by.”

  “Exactly,” affirmed Weston. “We shall make no attempt to scare away The Red Blot’s agent. Your association will fulfill the terms required.”

  “Regarding the money?” questioned Pringle.

  “Hardly,” smiled Weston.

  “One moment,” objected Felix Cushman. “Please read that last paragraph, commissioner. Remember what I have said; that we must assure the release of Selfridge Woodstock. If we assemble without the money, we will not be fulfilling the required terms. That - according to The Red Blot’s statement - will mean the end of negotiations.”

  “You are prepared to have five million dollars?” questioned Weston, in astonishment. “You would place that sum in jeopardy -“

  “I would not care to do so,” interposed Cushman. “Nevertheless, I adhere to my original statement. The release of Selfridge Woodstock would be worth that sum to our association.”

  “Gentlemen” - Cushman spoke to the directors - “we all know that Selfridge Woodstock is a man of immense wealth. His release would not only assure the success of our enterprises; it would also gain us the heartfelt thanks of the man himself. To Selfridge Woodstock, five million dollars is not an immense sum.”

  “At the same time” - Cushman was back to Weston - “it would be folly to deliberately sacrifice five million dollars by placing it into the hands of The Red Blot.”

  The situation seemed to be reaching the stage of a dilemma. Commissioner Weston tried to offer new assurance.

  “Your meeting tomorrow night,” he declared, “will be well protected. I have already advised that you meet The Red Blot’s agent. I do not approve of the delivery of ransom money. Still, I would like to have these negotiations bring results - not only the arrest of The Red Blot’s agent, but the capture of the criminal himself. If he should appear - the agent, I mean - and you could treat with him.”

  “He might demand to see the money,” interposed Cushman.

  “Exactly,” decided Weston. “Therein lies the difficulty. On the contrary, if you could demand to see Selfridge Woodstock -“

  “Why not?” exclaimed Dobson Pringle, leaping ahead of the commissioner’s suggestion. “Let us have the money for the agent. Cash - or securities - to the extent of five million. Perhaps the agent will be prepared to produce Selfridge Woodstock then. At least, we could sound him out.”

  “The money will be in jeopardy!” warned Weston.

  “What about your police?” questioned Cushman angrily. “A few minutes ago, you told us they would be prepared to seize The Red Blot’s agent. Would they be paralyzed if the man tried to run away with our money?”

  “They would not!” retorted the commissioner, rising to his feet. Then, in a quiet tone, he added “There is nothing to be lost by the action which you suggest. I have advised the meeting tomorrow night, under the conditions which are proposed in this demand from The Red Blot. I did not expect that you would have the required amount available; if you are willing to take chances with five million dollars, I have no objection.”

  “It is a drastic step,” remarked one of the directors.

  “Drastic, yes,” agreed Cushman. “But I favor it. Our conference room is an isolated spot. I can readily see how some emissary - unknown to us - can come there. We could not possibly recognize him as The Red Blot’s agent until he demands the money. That moment, I believe, will be the vital one to our hopes. We can arrange to have the funds on hand - but if you disapprove, gentlemen, I am willing to forgo the plan.”

  While the directors sat in consideration of the proposal, Dobson Pringle interjected a severe note of dissatisfaction.

  “I am the president of this association,” he asserted. “It seems to me that you are taking too much upon your own shoulders, Cushman. Suggestions, in this matter should come from me, not from you!”

  This outburst of personal objection had an electric effect upon Felix Cushman. The dark-haired man faced Pringle with blazing eyes.

  “So far as we are concerned,” he retorted, “you are nothing but a figurehead, Pringle! The appropriation of funds lies in the hands of the directors - not the president. Your duties concern actual building operations. Objections from you are not likely to be sustained. I trust that the directors will remember that fact.”

  Cushman turned to the directors as he finished speaking. Commissioner Weston saw immediately that this man held the whip hand over the others. Pringle’s interjection had awakened what appeared to be a feud over the ownership of power.

  THE result was an immediate reaction on the part of the directors. One by one, each voiced his approval of Cushman’s plan. When the vote had been taken, Dobson Pringle arose and spoke with a subdued spirit.

  “I accept your decision, gentle
men,” he declared. “It was merely my desire to offer sound advice. I stand rebuked; therefore, I shall cooperate in full. Nevertheless, I still feel that we are running too great a risk, now that I have given the subject careful consideration.”

  “Your apology is accepted, Pringle,” returned Cushman testily. “As chairman of directors, I shall arrange the appropriation of five million dollars to have on hand tomorrow night. I shall confer with you, Commissioner Weston, so that we may have the funds brought to our conference room under police guard.”

  “If we search the premises before the money is brought in; if we have every outlet guarded so that no one can leave the place, I can see no risk involved. The primary objective is to effect the release of Selfridge Woodstock.”

  “Nothing must be said about this arrangement,” warned Commissioner Weston. “I shall attend to the details. I shall come to your offices in the Amalgamated Building tomorrow morning, and make the necessary strategic arrangements.”

  Thus came the final arrangements for the next night. With five million dollars as the bait, Commissioner Weston was ready to lay the snare that would enmesh The Red Blot’s emissary!

  CHAPTER XV

  IN THE LAIR

  A MAN was seated in a curious, stonewalled office. The room was windowless; a single light hung from the ceiling between the door and a desk on the opposite side. The man’s back was toward the door; he was reading a newspaper spread upon the desk.

  A buzzer sounded. The man at the desk folded the newspaper. He arose and turned toward the light. The action revealed his face. It was the hard-featured, unshaven countenance of Socks Mallory.

  Opening the door, Mallory stepped into a narrow, stonewalled passage. This corridor, like the little office, had but a single light. It terminated in steel doors - one at either end. Mallory went to the door at the right end, pulled a lever, and opened the barrier.

  A lanky and side-jawed individual stepped through the opening. His greeting to Mallory was a twisted grin.