“An odd message for you, Mr. Pringle,” the architect announced. “Someone says that he left a message for you at the desk, in the lobby; but it was not to be delivered until you call for it.”
“Who is on the wire?” questioned Pringle.
“I don’t know,” returned Carmody. “A voice that I never heard before. Insisting that you get the message at the desk.”
Pringle arose and came over to the telephone. He took the instrument from Carmody, and began to speak. He heard a voice cut off at the other end.
“This is Mr. Pringle,” the president stated. “Who are you?”
No reply.
Pringle looked puzzled. He jiggled the hook. The hotel operator responded. Pringle began to complain that his call had been cut off; then changed to tell the operator to give him the desk.
“Hello,” he said. “This is Dobson Pringle. You have a message there for me?… Very good… I was to call for it, eh?… Send it up to the twenty-fourth floor… Yes, where the Amalgamated Builders’ Association is holding its directors’ meeting.”
PRINGLE put down the telephone and went back to the table, He resumed his conversation with the directors. Between three and four minutes later, there was a knock at the door. Carmody answered it, and received a square envelope. He tipped the attendant, dismissed him, and brought the message to Pringle.
The building president uttered an ejaculation of surprise, as he showed the envelope to Felix Cushman. Although it bore the name of Dobson Pringle on the wrapper, it was also marked in the corner, with underscored words:
For the Directors.
Both Pringle’s name and this notation were inscribed in red ink. The president opened the envelope and spread a sheet of paper on the table. He stared at red-inked lines.
With Felix Cushman looking over his shoulder, Pringle slowly read these words, in an astounded voice:
“To Dobson Pringle and those concerned with the management of the Amalgamated Builders’ Association:
“You have just completed a fifty million-dollar agreement with Selfridge Woodstock of Chicago. You hold the agreement; but I hold Woodstock.
“He will not be released until you have made the arrangements which I require. My agent will call at your conference room in the Amalgamated Building tomorrow night at half past nine.
“At that time, you will deliver to him the sum of five million dollars, in cash or negotiable securities of which no record has been kept. In return for this payment, Selfridge Woodstock will be released.
“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?”
