“I think you are mistaken there, Wade,” came a quiet voice. The speaker was Lamont Cranston, like Wade, a gentleman of leisure reputed to possess great wealth. “I have not only heard of poisons; I have studied them. Farmington’s death indicates that he tasted a poison similar to the li-shun, a deadly product of Mongolia. It does not take effect immediately; when it does, it is extremely rapid.”
Matthew Wade shrugged his shoulders. He was an indolent man, who had inherited much of his money, and who had spent long periods of time in foreign countries. He was not one to discuss technicalities, although he had a somewhat challenging disposition.
“I’ll take your word for it, Cranston,” he replied. “I guess you’ve traveled as much as I have. I spent most of my time on big-game hunts in India. But I was too busy to study the Oriental methods of artistic assassination.”
THE group was breaking up. Some of the men started toward the billiard room; others toward the lobby.
Lamont Cranston remained in the lounge. He seated himself in a comfortable chair and turned to observe a man who was sitting near by. This individual had not been taking part in the discussion.
The man whom Cranston surveyed was a sober, quiet-faced chap in his thirties. He was dressed in evening clothes. He was smoking a panatella in a methodical manner, and seemed very much concerned with his own thoughts.
He, alone, seemed to reflect the usual atmosphere of the Cobalt Club. The only expression on his face was a look of glumness that seemed to be habitual. It disappeared suddenly when the man noticed that he was being observed. He cast a slow glance at Lamont Cranston, recognized the firm, chiseled face of the millionaire, and spoke words of greeting.
“Good evening, Mr. Cranston,” was all he said.
“Good evening, er— er—” Cranston seemed at loss.
“Mann,” was the reply. “Rutledge Mann.”
“Ah, yes!” exclaimed Cranston. “I remember, now. I’ve met you here several times before. Were you listening to the conversation of the worried plutocrats?”
“It hardly concerned me,” replied Mann, with a wan smile.
“Why not?”
“I don’t belong in the plutocrat class.”
Lamont Cranston was studious. Despite his pretense, he had recognized Rutledge Mann. Moreover, he knew a great deal of his history.
Mann was of a family that had once been wealthy. He had conducted a small brokerage business, and had dealt with members of the Cobalt Club. Now, it was evident that he had fallen into hard times.
“Business not so good, eh?” questioned Cranston.
“There is no business at all,” replied Mann quietly.
“Closed out?”
“Yes.”
“That’s too bad,” observed Cranston. There was an understanding in his tone that impressed Rutledge Mann. “What are you going to do now?”
“I don’t know,” Mann replied. “I’d do anything to get started again. I owe a lot of debts. If it wasn’t for that—”
He stopped abruptly. Although he never ended the sentence, Lamont Cranston inferred the rest. The peculiar flicker that appeared on Mann’s face told him all.
Rutledge Mann was up against it — badly. Only his sense of obligation prevented him from taking desperate measures. In fact, his thoughts were dwelling right now upon an automatic that reposed in the table drawer of his apartment.
Mann did not notice that Cranston was still watching him. Had he been alert enough to observe that fact, he would have been surprised. For Cranston’s sharp eyes were focused keenly on the face of the ex-broker. He seemed to be reading the innermost thoughts of the man beside him.
Rutledge Mann arose from his chair. He glanced at the clock that showed through the door from the lobby. That action was significant to Lamont Cranston.
He knew that Mann must have pawned the expensive wrist watch which he had been wearing a few nights before. For Lamont Cranston had been secretly observing Rutledge Mann for a considerable period of time.
“Good night,” said Mann abruptly. “It’s rather late. I’m going to ride uptown to my apartment.”
He left the lounge and obtained his coat in the lobby. He carried it over his arm until he had passed through the revolving door. For that coat was threadbare. The only respectable garb which Rutledge Mann still possessed was the full-dress suit which he donned for his evening visits to the Cobalt Club.
OUTSIDE, it was drizzling. Rutledge Mann faced the rain and strode along the Avenue. It was several blocks to the subway station, yet he ignored the taxicabs waiting at the door of the club. He did this for a good reason. He had only fifty cents in his pocket.
Mann chided himself as he strode along, particularly when a taxicab, swinging away from the entrance of the Cobalt Club, splattered past him. Accustomed to surroundings of wealth, the club had been his only haven during the past few months. He spent most of his time there, but felt strangely out of place.
With men like Lamont Cranston, for instance — or Matthew Wade. To either of them, a thousand dollars was pin money. Yet, tonight, Rutledge Mann would have sacrificed anything for half that sum.
The drizzle had become a torrent when Mann emerged from the subway station near the apartment house where he lived. Two blocks through the deluge. He made it on the run. He entered his apartment, dripping wet. He threw his coat in the closet and surveyed the ruin of his evening clothes. He hung the coat up to dry, placed the vest over the back of a chair, and pulled away his tie and collar. He sat down in front of the table. Acting on sudden impulse, he pulled open the table drawer and picked up the gun.
It was the only item of any value which still belonged to him. Should he pawn it, or—
The gun was in his left hand. Mann was staring, fascinated, into the gleaming muzzle. Instinctively, his finger sought the trigger. He seemed in a little world of his own, within the circled glare of the table lamp.
Even the rest of the room about him was a black, unknown realm. Mann’s finger steadied. Then, from that outside world, came a black-clad hand that plucked the automatic from his grasp.
Mann stared upward to find himself facing a tall being, who seemed a fantastic specter come from nowhere.
The visitor was clad entirely in black. He wore a long black cloak, with a high collar that obscured his face. Over his forehead was the broad brim of a slouch hat. Two eyes were all that Mann could see eyes that glowed like sparkling coals.
The automatic disappeared beneath the folds of the black cloak. Mann, astounded and empty-handed, was unable even to gasp his surprise.
“Why do you seek death?”
The question came in a whispered voice. Its uncanny tones made Mann shudder; yet he felt no fear because of the stranger’s presence.
“There’s nothing to live for,” he replied. “I’m broke. No friends. No future. No one depends on me. I’ve reached the end — that’s all. Why hold off?”
A black-gloved hand advanced. The gun was replaced in Mann’s grasp. Mann felt that he was dreaming; that his harassed mind had fancied all this. The touch of the cold metal brought reality. But he held the gun loosely, his thoughts of suicide temporarily forgotten.
“If you have good reasons for death,” came the whispered voice, “I shall not deny you the privilege. But if all you need is money and friendship to make life worth continuing, they are yours — if you will do my bidding.”
Mann laid the gun on the table. He stared straight at the man in black.
“What do you ask?” he inquired.
“Obedience. Full obedience. Without question. You will have life and honor. But my bidding shall be law.”