Crozer made new notations. When this discussion had been completed, Selfridge Woodstock eyed the black-haired man squarely and put an important question.
“What,” he asked, “are the available funds of the Amalgamated Builders’ Association?”
“The list,” said Cushman to Pringle. The president produced it. Woodstock studied the figures.
“Fifty million dollars,” declared Woodstock. “These are ready funds - at least negotiable securities which can be promptly liquidated?”
“Positively,” announced Cushman.
“That is all I care to know, gentlemen,” decided Woodstock. “Crozer, how much time do we have to catch the Bar Harbor Express?”
“Thirty minutes, sir.”
Then Selfridge Woodstock arose and smiled. He noted the anxious look on the faces watching him. His smile broadened.
“I am going to my Maine lodge tonight, gentlemen,” he said. “This appointment was planned as a little stopover on the way.
“Perhaps you may be surprised to know that I do business in such short time; but that happens to be the way of my choice. Your proposition suits me. I shall be glad to invest the fifty million dollars which you require to proceed with the new enterprise.”
A gasp passed around the group.
These men had expected a refusal from the financier, so quickly had his decision been made. Instead, Selfridge Woodstock had accepted their terms without question!
Words of appreciation were coming from all sides. Selfridge Woodstock, donning coat and hat with Crozer’s aid, was still smiling at the sensation which he had created. He shook hands around the group; then added a few words.
“My word is my bond, gentlemen,” declared Woodstock. “I shall be in Maine one week; then to Chicago by way of Canada. Send the papers to my office there; send your representative. I shall go through with the deal exactly as you have proposed it.”
Nodding his good-bye, Selfridge Woodstock left the room, accompanied by Crozer. The financier’s last glimpse was one of beaming faces, among which those of Dobson Pringle and Felix Cushman predominated.
SELFRIDGE WOODSTOCK chuckled as he walked along the silent corridor with his secretary. When they reached the elevators, Crozer pushed the button, and smiled at his employer’s good humor. Selfridge Woodstock loved the element of surprise, and he utilized it even in the most important transactions.
“They didn’t know,” said the financier, “that I was sold on their proposition before I came here. Fifty million dollars! No wonder it took their breath, Crozer. They have that amount themselves, but it represents the investment of several moneyed men.”
A man had stepped from another corridor while Selfridge Woodstock was speaking. His hat was pulled low over his features. His hands were in his pockets.
The metal door of the elevator shaft slid open. Woodstock and Crozer boarded the car; the stranger followed them. The door slid shut. The stranger brought his hand from his coat pocket. Something glimmered as he delivered a ferocious blow to the hack of the operator’s head.
As the attendant fell, the ruffian turned and covered Woodstock and Crozer with the weapon he had used. It was a large revolver.
Instinctively, the financier and his secretary raised their hands. They saw a fierce, unshaven face confronting them - features which marked this man as the daring criminal whom the New York police now sought - Socks Mallory, right arm of The Red Blot!
With his left hand, Socks managed the elevator control. The car shot down the shaft, floor after floor. The swift descent decreased in speed. Socks Mallory brought the car to a stop and opened the door.
Woodstock and his secretary found themselves staring into the muzzles of three more revolvers. They realized, from the darkness outside the car, that they were at the very bottom of the shaft,
“Get out,” growled Socks Mallory, thrusting his gun forward. “Make it fast!”
The two men walked from the car, stepping down to a cement floor. A small opening yawned ahead of them. With mobsters jostling them with guns, the prisoners were thrust into a narrow, descending passageway.
They could hear Socks Mallory talking to another man behind them. The gang leader was giving instructions. There was a grunted response; a few seconds later, the elevator door shut.
Flashlights glimmered, to show a passageway through solid rock.
With Socks Mallory prodding from in back, the prisoners were hurried forward.
The Red Blot had spread tonight. The minions of that mighty crook had spirited away the richest financier of the Middle West, from the midst of the Hotel Gigantic!
CHAPTER XIII
THE ULTIMATUM
THE departure of Selfridge Woodstock and his secretary had left the directors of the Amalgamated Builders’ Association in high fettle. Felix Cushman, the sharp-visaged chairman of the board, was prompt to state the importance of what had occurred.
“Gentlemen,” he said, “this means absolute success to our projects. By acquiring the cooperation of Selfridge Woodstock, by gaining his consent to duplicate the amount of our resources, we have assured ourselves against unexpected competition. Our president, Mr. Pringle, can tell you that.”
Pringle was nodding solemnly.
“Yes,” he asserted, “there is every reason to believe that Woodstock intended to put his money into building operations, here in New York. I have dealt with Woodstock before; I knew him to be a man of quick and definite decisions. We have gained Woodstock’s support; moreover, we will not lose him, now that he has decided to go with us.”
“We have made millions here tonight,” added Cushman. “Pringle says that he will not lose Woodstock. I tell you that we cannot afford to lose him. We have large resources, but they would not be large enough to offset any combination that might be formed to compete with us. Woodstock, however, has settled everything in our favor.
“I tell you again, gentlemen, those few minutes that he was here were worth millions to all of you who have large holdings in Amalgamated Builders!”
The directors, men of many millions, responded warmly to these statements. Cushman, the wealthiest of all, came in for strong approval. Pringle, too, was given his share of commendation. Although a comparatively small holder of Amalgamated securities, Pringle’s position as president made him important.
Pringle had for years been connected with New York building promoters. He had, in a way, been inherited by Amalgamated Builders when a smaller concern had been absorbed by the large association.
Next to Pringle, Amalgamated had possessed Hubert Craft, the celebrated architect who had designed the most modern of the buildings which Amalgamated had promoted.
Pringle, now, made reference to the dead architect, in a thoughtful tone.
“This would have been glorious for Craft,” remarked the president. “Gentlemen, our new projects will include some of the finest structures that will appear upon Manhattan’s sky line!”
“We can count on Carmody,” mentioned one of the directors.
This was the first reference to the architect who now served as successor to Hubert Craft. Still standing by the wall, Carmody acknowledged the compliment with a short bow.
A retiring, noncommittal sort of man, Carmody had plodded on to his present position of importance. Nevertheless, his ability in building design had gained him merited recognition.
A TELEPHONE began to ring. Noting that the directors were again engaged in conversation, Carmody answered it. Talk ceased while the others listened to the architect’s words.
“Mr. Pringle?” queried Carmody. “He’s here… Yes… I understand… Wait a moment - you say it has been waiting for him, and should be delivered now… At the desk… One moment, please…”
Carmody covered the mouthpiece and turned to the men at the large table.
