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, gentlemen,” 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.
The newcomer’s face was one well known in the underworld of New York, although it had not been seen there for a long time. The visitor was Moocher Gleetz, the cracksman.
Socks Mallory closed the steel door and conducted Moocher into the little office. The visitor spied the newspaper and emitted an eager grunt.
“Say,” be exclaimed, “where’d you get this? The gang has all been wanting to lamp a paper - ever since last night -“
“Let them wait a while,” growled Socks. “Look it over, Moocher. It’s got good news.”
“How’d you get it?” inquired Moocher, as he picked up the sheet. “You been talking with The Blot?”
“What do you think I’m doing in here?” queried Socks, with a rough laugh. “Playing solitaire? Sure, I’ve seen The Blot. Tell the gang that everything is O.K.”
Moocher read the headlines and began to devour the story beneath them. He chuckled as he perused the details of the unsolved mystery at the Hotel Gigantic.
“Five million bucks!” he exclaimed. “The news hounds got that part of it, didn’t they? But look here, Socks; there’s nothing here about the delivery of the dough. You told me that was fixed -“
“The police managed to keep that part out,” grinned Socks. “Weston thinks he’s going to pull a fast one on us. Don’t worry. I’ll pick up that dough, in person - tonight! I just need a couple of the gang to help me, that’s all.”
“O.K., Socks. That’s all I want to know.”
“Five million tonight, Moocher. The other big job comes tomorrow night. After that, we can blow.”
“How’s the big boy from Chicago?”
“Resting nice, up at the other end of the hall. But he’s not going home, just yet. He knows too much of the game, now.”
A TICKING clock on the desk showed eleven. This was indication that it was the morning following the episode at the Hotel Gigantic. Moocher Gleetz finished his study of the newspaper, and turned to Socks Mallory.
“Say,” he questioned, “am I going with you tonight? Maybe it wouldn’t hurt to have me along.”
“Not you, Moocher,” interrupted Socks. “I want you to watch the Club Janeiro.”
“The bulls have left there,” objected Moocher. “They didn’t find anything.”
“I know that. They moved out this morning. But I got a note from Juanita - and if she’s got the right dope, we’d better keep watching that place.”
“You mean the bulls may be wise?”
“No. They’re dumb. But there was a guy in the place last night who may be smart. You know that the police
