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 determined.
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
