Howard Griscom nodded. The matter seemed very trivial to him. So much was at stake that it annoyed him to hear Cranston refer to such unimportant matters. The cab stopped near the Paladrome Theater. The men stepped out.
“Will you come up to the office?” asked Griscom. “I am going out to lunch in a few minutes.”
“Thank you. I have an appointment.” Lamont Cranston shook hands with Howard Griscom.
When the theater owner had gone, Cranston stood on the sidewalk, idly watching the passing automobiles that crowded the vicinity of Times Square.
Suddenly, his eyes became keen. He turned into a drug store, consulted a phone book, and returned to the street. He hailed a passing taxi.
“Turin Cafe,” he said. “Fourteenth Street, west of Sixth Avenue.”
FIFTEEN MINUTES later, Lamont Cranston entered the little Italian restaurant. There were not many people in the place. He studied various tables, and finally noted one in a far corner. He went to the table and sat down, after studying the position of the chairs.
Keen and observant, Cranston had quickly decided that this must be the very chair that Tony Peretti had been wont to occupy.
The waiter came, and Cranston gave his order. He sat with folded arms, as though considering a great problem. His keen eyes centered first in one place; then in another. At last they were focused upon the table, with its square glass top fitted above a dark cloth material.
Lamont Cranston drew an envelope from his pocket. He inserted a corner of the envelope between the glass top and the table. The envelope slid into the thin space. Holding its only projecting corner, Cranston moved the envelope back and forth along the edge of the table.