“An excellent dinner,” observed Froman. “Soup, entree, and dessert. I trust that you will enjoy the preserved peaches as the climax of your meal. I can assure you that they are excellent.”
The mild tone of Froman’s voice brought reassurance to Marcus Holtmann. His weak hands stretched toward the food. Froman laughed and turned away, followed by his retainer. The door closed behind them. Holtmann began to eat eagerly; then his strength failed momentarily, and he devoured the food more slowly.
OUTSIDE the closed barrier, the elevator rose to the cellar above. Frederick Froman’s face was smiling when it came under the rays of light at the top of the secret shaft. He and his henchman stepped from the lift. The elevator descended.
Froman continued upstairs until he reached the second floor. He glanced at his watch; then turned to the man beside him.
“It is approaching ten o’clock,” he said in Russian. “At twenty minutes past the hour you will return below. You understand?”
The henchman duplicated his master’s gloating smile as he nodded.
Seated in a chair in the front room, Froman drew a box of panatellas toward himself, and lighted one of the long cigars. Puffing slow wreaths of smoke, he became buried in thought. Once, he reached for the telephone beside him; then shook his head, and resumed his pondering, staring directly at the opposite wall.
Here, in this upstairs room, Froman was free from observation and intruders. The only means of entrance lay from the floor below. There, Froman’s servants were constantly on guard, secure behind triple-barred doors.
As a gentleman of wealth and leisure, Frederick Froman was able to pursue his affairs unmolested. Those affairs now savored of crime; yet they remained totally unsuspected by the police of New York.
The smile that seemed molded on the light-haired man’s face betokened the security that he felt. That smile might have faded had Froman turned his head.