"This cat"- Cranston gestured to the Persian-"is right now thinking out a problem, calculating how to deal with a certain situation, should it be repeated. It witnessed a menace that grew into a tragedy, before it could give warning. Now the cat is getting into practice for the next time."

Clawing the carpet with each step that it retreated, the cat gradually lowered its arched back; then, with a valiant effort, gave a long, forward spring. Its head was lifted, as though its eyes sought a man-sized target. Again, the cat went through the retreating motions, made another spring; then turned to look up at Cranston with a long, inquiring meow.

"The cat wants advice," said Cranston, "or possibly encouragement regarding a situation with which it cannot cope. Go right ahead, kitty. Tell us more."

The cat began to stalk about. From the way it paused, turned to Cranston with expressive meows, its story was plain enough. Step by step, the cat was retracing the course of Maresca's murderer, at the same time explaining its inability to deal with the human menace that had trod these premises. Pausing beside Maresca's body, the cat looked up, tensed for a spring, then relaxed. This time its meow was more plaintive than before.

"Dogs become mournful when they lose a master," observed Cranston. "Cats show their unhappiness in more practical ways, often through some small ritual of their own creation. Here we see something resembling remorse. The cat wishes it had been at this exact spot, to attack the killer. Instinct told it, at the time, that it could not help. Now it is proving the fact to its own satisfaction."

By then the cat had turned, crossed the room, and sprung to a chair near the wall. From the chair back it stretched a paw and began to claw at the lower corner of a framed picture which showed a youthful portrait of Maresca. As Cranston approached, the cat sat back, tilted its gaze toward the top of the frame and lifted one front paw, then the other. Now its meow was impatient, until Cranston, running his hands up the sides of the frame, found what he expected. The frame released itself as Cranston pressed the top corners. Downward came the frame, revealing the empty cabinet behind it.

Clyde Burke was staring fixedly at this scene and Cranston studied the reporter's expression while Weston and Cardona were examining the empty cache. Then, the cat was rubbing Cranston's legs, as if to nudge him elsewhere. As Cranston crossed the room, the cat leaped ahead, up to a table, then down and up to the secretary desk. It was trailing the murderer's course during the time when he had ransacked the room. Always, the cat poised, as though gauging these spots as vantage points for an attack, should the murderer return to the scene of his crime.

Finally, perched on a small end table, the cat stiffened its back as Cranston approached. Then it began boxing at him with its paws, hissing snarls, but never baring its claws. It was going through the motions of protecting something, but recognizing Cranston as a friend, the cat was giving him no more than apaddy-paw treatment. This serious play ended, the cat clawed at the edge of the narrow table top. Lifting the cat away, Cranston examined the table. A moment later, the top yielded to his tugs and hinged upward, showing a shallow compartment beneath.

Here were papers, a few jewels, money in both American and foreign currencies. Cranston looked down and stroked the cat as it came purring past his knee. Then, to Weston, he said: "Here's something the murderer missed, commissioner. Better bring it along as evidence. I don't suppose you'll need the cat, though."

"The cat isn't evidence," decided Weston. "It is a material witness. I don't know how we can summon it to court, unless it comes in someone's custody. Suppose I appoint you as its custodian, Cranston."

Cranston agreed with a nod.

"The Great Dane was hypnotized out back," declared Cardona, suddenly. "I guess the cat must have stayed out of sight when the murderer was here. What do you think, Mr. Cranston?"

"You are probably right, inspector," replied Cranston, "but I doubt that the cat would make a good subject. In fact"-Cranston smiled slightly-"it might make a better hypnotist. You were a bit influenced, inspector, though it may be that you are just over-susceptible to hypnotism."

"By that," returned Cardona, "do you mean on account of the treatment Professor Bogardus gave me?"

"In a way, yes," said Cranston. "Considering that Bogardus has been branded as a fake, he did pretty well in your case, inspector. By the way"- Cranston turned to Weston-"did you take up that point with Dr. Fontaine, commissioner?"

"Certainly," replied Weston. "Fontaine has gone on record as defining Bogardus as a fraud, rather than a fake. You heard him state that yourself, Cranston."

"Yes, but that was before we witnessed the professor's demonstration."

"Fontaine has seen Bogardus work frequently. After the show, he told me that tonight's demonstration was typical."

"How long afterward, commissioner?"

"Right after the show." Weston became suddenly quizzical. "You aren't implying, Cranston, that Fontaine might be responsible for what happened here?"

"I'm simply thinking in terms of hypnotists," stated Cranston, "and I mean the genuine kind. As an authority on the subject, Fontaine should certainly be familiar with its practice."

"Granted," said Weston, "but the same applies to Bogardus, within his range. He knows the methods, better perhaps than Fontaine. Anyway, answering your question about Dr. Fontaine, I dropped him at his office. He had been forced to postpone some work in order to attend Bogardus' show. He wanted to catch up with it."

"And Bogardus?" queried Cranston, in an impartial tone. "Where did he go?"

"To his studio," replied Weston. "He is preparing a new course of ninety-eight easy lessons for his students, and he said he wanted to record the results of to-night's demonstration, while it was still fresh in his mind." "Then neither has an alibi," mused Cranston. "Understand, commissioner, I'm not suggesting that either Bogardus or Fontaine could have entered here unnoticed. Not suggesting it at all"- Cranston's lips formed a faint smile- "not any more than that I might have done so myself. But the stranger who stalked up Fifth Avenue, the dog that froze beside its kennel, Burke's inability to explain a scene that he must have witnessed-all these indicate that a capable hypnotist engineered this murder."

"Here's more evidence on that score," put in Cardona, showing a report that a detective had just brought him. "They've just found a fellow named Timothy who works for Madame Lepavnu. He should have been around tonight, but he wasn't."

"Why not?" asked Weston.

"Because he's been wandering all around the Village trying to buy fresh white raspberries, which they don't carry and which are out of season, anyway. He remembers meeting somebody who told him Madame Lepavnu wanted them, but he can't remember who it was."

"Another case of hypnotism!" exclaimed Weston. "You have brought up a good point, Cranston. I'm going to check on both Bogardus and Fontaine, if only for their own good. Not only concerning tonight, but last night, too. The more I learn about them, the better, and there's one man may help me."

"Who is that?" queried Cranston. "Hanneford Lang?"

"Yes," replied Weston. "He knows both Bogardus and Fontaine well and trusts both of them, despite the fact that they are in opposite camps."

"Where did Lang go after the show?"

"To his penthouse, with a group of his friends. They are holding what Lang terms a crystal seance, which was scheduled at half past eleven, because some other guests were coming from the theater. It will probably last for several hours, so I won't disturb Lang tonight. I'll phone him in the morning."

With that, Commissioner Weston decided to go, leaving Inspector Cardona to carry on the investigation.

Cardona had another report which had just arrived; it concerned the tall, stalking man who had come out from behind the Mews and gone up Fifth Avenue. A check-up had been made at the cafe where the patrolman had last seen the man, but he had evidently left there and the place was too crowded for anyone to have noticed him well enough to remember.

Weston was picking up his coat and hat while Cardona was covering this report; hence both of them failed to see the black garments, a slouch hat and a bundled cloak, that were lying on the table under Weston's coat. Nor would they have had much of a chance even to glimpse that black apparel, Weston and Cardona, for Cranston, stepping by, had gathered them up with one arm, almost as Weston lifted his coat. With his other arm, Cranston was carrying the white cat and in the same maneuver, he planted his new pet upon the cloak and hat. The cat liked the improvised cushion and began to purr again.

When Cranston left, he took Clyde Burke along with him in Shrevvy's cab, which was waiting a half block away. As they rode, Cranston kept watching Clyde, observing the reporter's stolid but reflective stare. A soft laugh came from Cranston's lips, reminiscent of The Shadow's tone. Cranston had struck upon a way to clear Clyde's mind and at the same time check on the questions of Bogardus and Fontaine. It meant leaving the cat somewhere, so he told Shrevvy to drive to the apartment house where Margo Lane lived.

Margo had just come home when Cranston arrived. Her eyes sparkled with excitement the moment she saw the white cat. "Why, what a beauty!" Margo exclaimed. "You're leaving him here with me?"

"Only if he likes you," replied Cranston. "Let's see."

Cranston had left his hat and cloak in the cab, so the cat made no objection when transferred to Margo's arms. It purred inquiringly and settled down.

"I'm going along with Clyde Burke," explained Cranston. "He has to cover a crystal seance that Hanneford Lang is running as a sort of aftermath to Bogardus' show. If it's interesting, I'll get you an invitation to the next one.

"Not if it's anything like the professor's act, you won't," retorted Margo. "By the time I get through gathering my nerves, I'll be a bundle of them, after going through that ordeal. I'm glad you brought the cat to stay here. I was thinking I'd start screaming or sticking myself with pins if I had to stay alone."

Smiling a "good night," Cranston was turning toward the elevator, when Margo called after him: "Wait! Since the cat is staying here, I certainly ought to know his name or doesn't he have one?"

"If he has," decided Cranston, "we'd better change it. What would you suggest?"

"Every cat should have two names," replied Margo seriously. "Its surname should be one of importance, or distinction, like the name of some famous person. Its family name; well, since it's a cat, the name should be characteristic of the cat family." Looking down into the cat's blue eyes, Margo added, "Don't you think so, kitty?"

The cat evidently thought so, for it began to meow, turning its gaze appealingly to Cranston.

"And the name should have an appropriate significance," added Margo. "But I guess that's asking too much on the spur of the moment, isn't it, Lamont?"

"Not at all," replied Cranston with a smile. "I have the very name for this cat. Just call him Washington Mews."

The name couldn't have been better. As Lamont Cranston stepped into the elevator and waved back to Margo Lane, he heard Washington Mews purring him a "good night."

CHAPTER XII. THE CRYSTAL SEANCE.

THE penthouse owned by Hanneford Lang was more of a dream of lofty grandeur than an actuality. Not that the penthouse didn't exist; it was real enough, so far as walls and ceilings were concerned. But instead of an air castle topping a cloud-capped skysc.r.a.per, it was simply a squatty, square-shaped addition to the roof of a flat-topped twelve-story apartment building, dating back to the period when builders were too superst.i.tious to go as high as a thirteenth floor.

Hanneford Lang certainly wasn't superst.i.tious. His whole life was devoted to defeating hoodoos. This was apparent from the moment that the wheezy old elevator completed its climb and forced Lamont Cranston and Clyde Burke to stretch a full step to gain the hallway that fronted Lang's door. On the door was the number 1313, emblazoned in big letters. After all, being the only occupant of the thirteenth floor, Lang had a right to choose his own number.

The knocker on the door was an L on casting shaped to resemble a leering gnome that seemed to wince when Cranston pounded its nose. When the door was opened by a drab-faced servant, the visitors found that they had to walk under a ladder to enter the living room. These were just little jests, mild satires onsuperst.i.tion, which seemed out of character with Lang, whose manner had been very serious when he attended Bogardus' hypnotic show.

Such travesties usually explained themselves. The rule was true in this case. After the servant had pressed a b.u.t.ton to call Lang, the man himself appeared, wearing a bland smile that was probably his custom when he received new visitors. Through his gla.s.ses, Lang studied Cranston and Burke in owlish style, not recognizing them until Cranston made the introductions.

"We met only briefly this evening," declared Cranston. "My name is Lamont Cranston and I attended the Bogardus show this evening with Commissioner Weston and Dr. Fontaine. This gentleman is Clyde Burke, of the Cla.s.sic."

"Ah, yes," said Lang with a nod. "I remember now that you were with Dr. Fontaine. I hope you are not too superst.i.tious, to be annoyed by these surroundings."

"Not at all."

"I must apologize, too," continued Lang, "for not being more social when I met you earlier.

Unfortunately"-Lang's smile took the exact curve of his circular face-"you were there with Dr.

Fontaine."

"I understand," said Cranston. "Naturally, Professor Bogardus wouldn't have liked to see you fraternizing with the other camp."

"Precisely. Bogardus and Fontaine are both frequent visitors here, but never at the same time. Their opinions do not concur."

"So I gathered."

"Therefore," declared Lang, "I invite them only on alternate evenings."

It was Cranston's turn to smile as he asked casually, "Which of the two was here tonight?"

"Neither," replied Lang. "There was a trifling mix-up in the dates not long ago, and both have stayed away rather than risk meeting each other."

"How long has that been going on?"

"Perhaps a week." Lang's shoulders hunched in a shrug. "After all, I am not to blame. But none of this"- Lang's eyes gave a worried glance toward Clyde -"is for publication." He stared at Cranston again.

"Perhaps I should have inquired the purpose of your visit before I talked to you."

"It's quite all right," a.s.sured Cranston. "Burke is not here for a story. I brought him along to be the subject in one of your crystal gazing experiments. That is, provided our ideas concur regarding the use of the crystal."

With a bow, Lang gestured his visitors to chairs. Then, lifting his shoulders, he adopted the manner of an orator warming to a favorite theme.

"If you are puzzled because I have confidence both in Professor Bogardus and Dr. Fontaine," declared Lang, "I can give you an answer in a single phrase. It is because both are half right. I emphasize that fact, half right. Therefore, you might suppose that from Bogardus and Fontaine together, it would be impossible to learn the full truth. Unfortunately, that is not the case. "Bogardus and Fontaine agree on too many points. They agree on so many, that they constantly disagree.

To give a brief example, Bogardus will tell you that hypnotism is a state which an operator projects upon a subject. In contradiction, Fontaine will say that hypnotism is something that a subject himself attains under an operator's urge. What, may I ask, is the difference? Which is more essential, the operator or the subject?" Pausing, Lang delivered his full-moon smile. "Which came first, the chicken or the egg?"

Probably, Lang expected his visitors to laugh. Instead, Cranston accepted the statement with a calm nod, while Clyde retained a stolid stare. Lang's large, dull eyes brightened momentarily with a fanatical gleam.

Much pleased, he continued: "Hypnotism is a function of the mind. Therefore, it requires one mind only. The great mistake made both by Bogardus and Fontaine is that they consider hypnosis as an abnormal state, a thing which can be induced. On the contrary, it is normal, basic, the very essence of life itself. In a word, all living is hypnotic.

"Why do flowers open with the dawn? Why do moths seek the flame? Why do birds fly south in winter?

Instinct, you may say? Then what is the impulse that governs instinct? If it is the desire for self-preservation, whence comes that desire? It comes from life, of which it is an integral part. Action, creation, the will to do, are merely concomitants of the life principle."

In his harangue, Lang had seemingly multiplied his audience of two by a thousand. Now, as if wresting himself back from vast s.p.a.ces, he lowered his tone, stooped his shoulders, and wagged a decisive finger.

"There are times," concluded Lang, "when these motivating forces slacken, indeed, almost cease to function. Then life rests upon a dead center. Watch this chair, as I try to balance it on two legs"- tilting a chair backward, Lang held it so that its back and forth sway was slight, stopping it each time it wavered in one direction or the other-"and you have the perfect ill.u.s.tration. Theoretically, it should be possible to make this chair stay on its point of balance, but I have never seen it accomplished.

"The same is true of the mind. It can be kept at the waver point through its own sheer power of concentration. In no case is the hypnotist the man who places it there, nor does he even supply the urge.

He is merely the provider of a setting in which he becomes the opportunist who takes advantage of someone else's undecided mind. Divide and conquer is the hypnotist's real motto. He wins during the conflict between the conscious and the subconscious mind."

Again drawn to his full height, Lang stood tall and thin, his head almost touching the top of the doorway in which he was framed. This was a striking contrast to his huddled pose, when he purposely reduced his height to draw closer to the persons upon whom he wished to emphasize his opinions. Now, with a dramatic gesture, Lang swept his hand through the doorway and said: "Come."

They followed Lang through to the central room of the penthouse. There, beneath a ceiling fitted with an artificial dome, sat half a dozen people, gazing from a circle into a huge crystal ball. Among them were a few who had been at the Bogardus demonstration with Lang. Their eyes were rapt, but their expressions varied. Some showed smiles, others were tinged with horror. But in every instance, the faces were undergoing slow changes, as though stirred by variable emotions.

Gently, Lang tapped the crystal gazers on their shoulders. One by one, they lifted their heads, stared about; then, recognizing each other, they began to pour excited accounts of sights they had seen in the crystal. Lang allowed one woman to remain gazing at the ball; she was undisturbed by the chatter.

Indicating the woman, Lang said to Cranston: "She arrived quite late. It takes time to rouse these crystal visions. It would not be fair to disturb her."

"How long," asked Cranston, "does a seance last?"

"Let me see." Lang calculated slowly, then turned to a white-haired man who was leaning back in his chair. "When did we start consulting the crystal? At eleven o'clock?"

"That's when we got here," the white-haired man replied. "We didn't begin until about half past." Looking up as he spoke, the man saw Cranston, rose to his feet and extended his hand, "Well, well, Cranston!" he exclaimed. "You remember me, I hope?"

"Donald Gregg," identified Cranston. Then, turning to introduce the man to Clyde, he added, "We used to be directors of the same bank." Cranston gave Gregg a smile. "The Governor's National, wasn't it?"

Gregg nodded.

"Exhilarating, this crystal work," Gregg, said. "You should take it up, Cranston. It literally sheds time from your shoulders. Why, a galaxy of scenes pa.s.sed before my eyes in what seemed only a few moments, yet by now it must be midnight!"

"It is after one o'clock," corrected Lang, glancing at his watch. "I called a rest period at midnight and about twelve thirty, we began again. That is the customary procedure"- Lang was turning to Cranston as he spoke-"half an hour at the crystal, half an hour's rest. Then we are ready for another turn.

"Of course, one set of visions completely dispels all recollection of the previous. On survey nights, we take notes between sessions, but this group prefers the crystal for their own enjoyment. Taking notes of crystal visions is like keeping a diary on a vacation."

Cranston was studying the crystal ball. It was artificial in construction, but as clear as the finest rock crystal. Nearly two feet in diameter, the globe rested on a low pedestal through which light was projected from below, giving the sphere a soft, diffused glow.

"A large crystal is needed for a group," explained Lang. "Sometimes they see similar images, an indication of thought transference. What we seek mostly are visions of the unknown, the sort that I intend to publish in my book 'The Worlds Between.' Of course, the hardest task is to keep past recollections from disturbing the clearer visions." He turned to Gregg. "How were your results at this session?"

"Excellent," replied Gregg. "I had visions of great golden palaces with jeweled domes, but they wavered and blurred, like a motion picture out of focus. They were disturbed, too, by the shadows of pa.s.sing clouds."