IT was after two o’clock when they passed the entrance to the Paladrome Theater on their way back to Griscom’s office. The theater owner pointed out two detectives in the lobby.
“They’re watching every one who comes in,” he said. “But at best, it’s only a makeshift. We may have a chance to apprehend a trouble-maker after the damage is done; hardly before.
“I’m worried, Cranston. Something is going to strike; and we’ll be helpless.”
In the office, Griscom recalled his promise to Cranston. He called up a camera man, and the photographer said that he would be over within fifteen minutes.
The man arrived at the time specified. Griscom introduced him as Bud Sherman. Cranston pointed out the panoramic view of central New York.
“Suppose we wait a while,” he suggested. “The Saturday-afternoon crowd is increasing. Set your camera to take in a diagonal view of the street, so we can get the direction from which the crowd is coming. About there” — Cranston pointed diagonally across the busy thoroughfare — “where that drug store is located.”
“Brantwell’s?” questioned Sherman.
“Yes.”
While Bud Sherman was setting up the camera, Arline Griscom entered the office. The girl smiled pleasantly at Lamont Cranston, who bowed in return. She spoke to her father; then she noticed the camera, and asked why it was there.
“Mr. Cranston thought a picture of Times Square would be interesting,” explained Griscom, with an amused look on his face, “so I provided the camera man.”