“It’s a week now,” declared Griscom. “One week since Ballantyne — died. Not a clew to the identity of the murderer! Wilberton called me up the day after the tragedy. He offered condolences. He asked if I would like to see him.
“He expected that I would want the loan, with Ballantyne no longer here. I couldn’t do it, Cranston. Wilberton was amazed. It seemed obvious to him these criminals would stop at nothing to attain their vile purposes.
“He may be right, Cranston. There’s nothing to link the murder with the racketeers. Perhaps” — the old man’s eyes wandered to a photograph of his daughter that stood upon the desk — “perhaps my turn will be next!”
“You mean they may murder you?”
Griscom nodded.
“I don’t think so.” Cranston’s voice was cool and calculating. “One murder is serious enough. They will let it rest — for a while. Then they will try some other method.”
The words seemed to relieve Griscom. He did not notice the ominous tone in which Cranston had uttered his final sentence. The fact that murder might not be attempted was reassuring. Griscom’s dulled mind could consider nothing else.
“Belden came here,” said Griscom. “He came a few days after Ballantyne’s death. He seemed very sorry because of it. He said it was unfortunate.
“He, too, expected that I was ready to quit. He was quite surprised when I told him I would have nothing to do with his association. He called it a legitimate business.
“He is right, Cranston, on the face of it. We cannot prove a thing against him. Still, I am convinced that he is working with the murderer!”