It wasn’t to hide his already disguised features. His quick impersonation had accomplished that adequately enough. The slipping on of the mask was a studied gesture done for deliberate effect. It was one of Van’s ways of announcing abruptly and startlingly to all present that the Phantom had arrived.
Inspector Farragut started when he saw Van’s tall masked figure. But his face showed neither amusement nor contempt. The Phantom’s record was so impressive that Farragut had no impulse to criticize his foibles. The other detectives in the room seemed to feel the same way.
Steve Huston’s eyes widened as he took in those strange features below Van’s mask. He had seen the mysterious, super-crime hunter in a hundred impersonations, but he had never quite got used to the Phantom’s uncanny ability at disguise.
“The Phantom,” said Frank Havens softly. “I believe you all know him, gentlemen.”
There was a brief silence, then, looking straight at Inspector Farragut, Dick Van Loan spoke.
“Havens has given me the details of the murders. I understand that the dead man here wanted to see me before he was shot down. Havens says he had a clue.”
Farragut nodded. “With Squires alive to tell us where he found that clue it might have been valuable. With him dead it isn’t worth a damn.”
“May I see it?”
Farragut nodded again and handed over the white envelope that Jason Squires had clutched as he fell to the floor dead. Van opened it, shook into his hand a small chunk of crumbling blue clay about half the size of a peanut. He stared at it intently while Farragut voiced his opinion.
“The significance of it is plain enough. Look at this German musical doll here with Squires’s face on it. It’s such a good likeness it gives a man the shivers. And the doll that Winstead got in the mail just before those killers came was a good likeness, too. The man who made those dolls’ faces is a clever sculptor. And what is it sculptors use, Phantom?”
Van said nothing for a moment. He picked up the doll and examined it closely. The face was made of some fine quality of modeling wax, painted over.
“Well,” said Farragut impatiently, “you must understand what I’m driving at. The killer used some of this clay to model with before he made those casts of the dead men’s features. Squires found that modeling clay in some place that made him suspect who the killer was.”
Dick Van Loan shook his head.
“A good theory, Inspector. Stands up well, and on the face of it seems logical. But it’s so darned good and simple that I, for one, suspect it. I’m sorry to say that I’m going to knock it into a cocked hat.”
Farragut stared at the clay, and looked up challengingly.
“This stuff was never used for modeling,” Van continued, “It isn’t plastic enough for that. It’s a sample of earth that Squires found somewhere and was going to tell me about. He was carrying it around with him. He must have got it before the murder of Winstead. For some reason the circumstances under which he found it, or the clay itself, aroused his suspicions. We’ve got to find out more about it.”
“How?” said Farragut. “It might have come from anywhere in or outside the city limits.”
“You don’t generally find blue clay like this on the ground’s surface,” said Van. “It seems to me to have come from a ditch somewhere. Call up Mike Keogh. He’s a contractor who’s dug more holes around New York than any other man in the city. Get him here, and I think he’ll give us some valuable information.”
FARRAGUT sent a detective to phone Keogh. Van began firing questions.
“Any trace of the fellow who shot Squires?”
“No. My men searched this building from top to bottom. Nobody outside of Huston, Mr. Havens, and the dead man saw him. He made his getaway before we arrived.”
“What about those dolls? Have you got any dope on them?”
Farragut’s face grew grave. “I had a report from one of my boys just before you came. A German import goods store over on Eighth Avenue was burglarized ten days ago. Nothing was taken except a half dozen of those dolls.”
“Half a dozen!” Van gave a whistling exclamation. “Good Lord, Inspector!” The air of the room seemed heavy suddenly with the black threat of more impending murder.
Farragut nodded fiercely. “I know! That means a lot more people are going to get them and be knocked off. It means these are just the first two killings in a chain.”
Dick Van Loan paced restlessly across the office. “We must hunt for a motive,” he barked. “It’s easy to see why Squires was killed. This clue of his was dangerous to someone. But why was Don Winstead murdered? Does it mean that the other Caulder heirs are marked as victims, too?”
“Maybe,” said Farragut. “They’re a damned queer family if you ask me. Nobody knows what they may have been up to. With old Caulder getting ready to cash in, the nephews and the niece are going to be rich as Solomon. Money’s always dangerous.”
“You say they’re a queer family, Inspector. Just what do you mean by that?”
“The three I talked to acted funny. Winstead’s brother is a sort of society sap who looks like a third-rate gigolo. Mrs. Tyler, the niece, is as dizzy a dame as you’d want to see. Eben Gray is one of those nasty nice gents that I would not trust around the corner. Then there are two others.”
“Two others?” Van leaned forward, eyes snapping behind his mask.
“Yes. I haven’t seen ‘em yet, but I’ve got their pedigrees. One, Judd Moxley, is up in the state pen doing time on a second-degree murder rap. He’s been there ten years now. He killed a friend in a peevish fit. The other, Simon Blackwell, is a recluse. Lives somewhere out in the suburbs.”
“Interesting!” said Van. “We’ll have to act quickly if we want to smash this chain of murders. Have you got the home addresses of all these people?”
Steve Huston stepped forward before the inspector could answer.
“They were in the Clarion files,” he said, “on account of their being heirs to the Caulder dough. Here they are, Phantom.” He handed Van a slip of paper with five addresses on it. “If you want Moxley,” he added, “just stop in at the jail.”
Van looked at the slip. “They all have impressive addresses except this man Blackwell,” he said quickly. “He lives up near a city dump by the East River.”
Havens’s secretary stuck his head in and announced that a Mr. Keogh had arrived. The contractor entered solemnly, a small, stocky man with a shrewd, Irish face. He jumped when he saw the corpse on the floor and the masked figure of the Phantom.
“It was good of you to come,” said Van. “This is a murder investigation, Mr. Keogh. We want your professional opinion on a point that has come up.”
Keogh glanced uneasily from face to face. “I don’t know a damn thing about detective stuff,” he muttered.
“But you can tell us whether you have ever come across any clay like this in your work as contractor?”
The Irishman squinted, wrinkled his forehead, and poked with a thumb the size of a chisel at the clay Van held out.
“Sure. We see lots of that stuff in the big ditch we’re digging for the new Sixth Avenue subway.”
Farragut snorted. Van said quietly: “What do you do with the clay, Mr. Keogh, after your steam shovels strike it?”
“Get rid of it,” said Keogh promptly. “Dump it out in some land the city wants filled in.”
“Where’s that?”
“Up the East River at a place they call Channel Point.”
Steve Huston made a choking sound, and Van’s eyes flashed fire. Huston spoke up loudly, his small wiry body quivering with excitement.
“Cripes alive, man! Channel Point is where this guy Blackwell hangs out. When it comes to sleuthing, Phantom, you’ve got a nose like a weasel.”
“The East River dump is our next stop,” said Van grimly. “Come on, Inspector.” The piece of land known as Channel Point was a dreary stretch of marsh extending out into the sluggish current of the East River. Heavy dump trucks had p
itted and rutted the single road that led to the end of it.
VAN, in the police sedan with inspector Farragut and a group of plainclothes men from the Homicide Squad, could see under the headlights streaks of the bluish clay from the subway excavation, which had shaken off the dump trucks. Narrow byroads branched off, right and left, to refuse heaps and to the swampland that was being filled in.
The one cottage at the end of the point, where Simon Blackwell – recluse and heir to the Caulder millions – lived, was as dismal as its setting.
It was a rambling, ugly structure of unpainted clapboards. A light showed in one window. The rest of the house was dark. And, giving a sinister, secretive air to the whole place, a high barbed-wire fence ran from shore to shore in front of the house, blocking the road abruptly. The gate was padlocked.
“Give ‘em the horn!” Farragut growled to the police chauffeur.
The sedan’s siren, sounding dismally in the murk, brought a witch-like old woman, with a face as wrinkled as a nut kernel to the gate.
“Who is it? What do you want?” she croaked.
“It’s the police,” said Farragut. “We want to see Mr. Blackwell.”
A dashlight limned his face.
“The police!” The old servant’s voice cracked. She raised her lantern, looked at Farragut fearfully. “I can’t let you in. Mr. Blackwell don’t let no one through this gate since a tramp came and killed his dog.”
“He’ll see us,” said Farragut. “There’s been a murder, Blackwell’s likely to get in a lot of trouble if you don’t let us in.” He turned back his coat, let the rays of the lantern fall on his gleaming gold badge.
The old woman took a key from her apron and opened the padlock with shaking hands. She hobbled ahead of them as the big car rolled along the swampy drive.
WHEN they climbed out and went into the house a voice sounded fiercely: “What’s the meaning of this, Sarah? How dare you let people in when you know my orders?”
A tall hawk-faced man with a wiry pompadour of stiff grey hair stood in the door of a connecting room. His skin had a corpselike pallor, as though it were never exposed to fresh air or sunlight. But his body radiated an almost-frenzied vigor.
“It’s the police,” wailed the old woman. “They said you’d get into trouble if I didn’t open the gate.”
“The police!” There was no fear in Simon Blackwell’s bright eyes, only surprise and indignation. “You can get right out of here, all of you! I don’t allow my premises to be invaded.” He stared hard at the Phantom’s mask, adding harshly, “And you, too, sir, with your stupid buffoonery.”
“This is a murder investigation,” stated Ferguson in his most impressive tones.
“Murder is it? Well, it would have been more to the point if you’d come ten days ago to arrest that filthy tramp!”
“Your cousin, Don Winstead, was stabbed to death early this evening,” said Farragut coldly. “The lawyer, Jason Squires, was killed a short while afterwards. We’re here to question you about these double killings.”
Blackwell broke into a discordant laugh, his white face wrinkling into lines of mirth that were diabolical.
“So, they got themselves killed, did they? As far as I’m concerned I say good riddance! I’m more interested in the murder of my dog.”
The inspector’s jaw muscles bulged in anger. “There was a clue that pointed straight in your direction,” he snapped. “Squires had a bit of clay from this point of land to which he appeared to attach great significance.”
“Pah!” said Blackwell. “I haven’t left this house for years. I tell you the only murderer I’m interested in is the tramp who brained my dog.”
Farragut was about to cross-question him savagely when Dick Van Loan broke in. “What about this tramp? Just when did he come, and why did he kill your dog?”
Blackwell’s face relaxed a little, and he moved closer to the Phantom. “I see you’ve got some sense, young man, in spite of that buffoon’s mask! The tramp clubbed my dog to death, broke in here, and demanded that I feed him. He was bearded and filthy, and he made me sit with him at the table while he ate.”
“When did this happen?”
“Around the fifteenth – late at night.”
Farragut tugged at Van’s sleeve, pulling him aside. “This won’t get us anywhere! Let’s get him down to brass tacks.”
“I’d like to hear his story,” said Van quietly. “There’s something in this business about the tramp.” He turned back to Blackwell. “Just what did the man do after he broke in and you placed food before him?”
“Ate,” said Blackwell. “Stuffed food into his dirty beard and looked at me. He kept his club on the table beside him and signaled that he’d brain me if I didn’t sit quiet.”
“Signaled you?”
“Yes, he was deaf and dumb – just a mute with criminal inclinations.”
Van turned to the old woman excitedly. “Did you notice anything else peculiar about him?”
She shook her head. “Nothing, except he was in a hurry to get somewhere else. He kept looking at his watch.”
Dick Van Loan stiffened. “You mean to tell me this tramp had a watch?”
“Yes,” said Sarah positively. “I saw him stare at it six or seven times.”
The Phantom was silent a moment, his lips harsh below his mask and a glint of apprehension in his eyes. Inspector Farragut spoke impatiently. “We’re getting nowhere!”
“On the contrary,” said Van grimly, “we know where we stand now. What would you say, Inspector, if I told you Blackwell here was marked for death?”
“Eh?” Farragut started. “How do you figure that?”
“That tramp with the watch!” said Van softly. “A man hungry enough to break in and steal food would have sold or pawned his watch first. And doesn’t it seem odd that a tramp should have one anyway?”
“I can’t get excited about it,” said Farragut glumly.
“No? Surely you’ve heard of watch cameras, Inspector – the simplest way of taking a picture of a man without his knowing it.”
Farragut stiffened as light began to dawn. The Phantom went on relentlessly.
“The fiend behind these killings would want to be sure just what Blackwell looked like before he modeled the face on one of his damnable dolls. That tramp was the real killer. The fact that he played deaf-and-dumb would indicate that he wanted to hide his voice because Blackwell knew him. A beard is one of the crudest but most effective forms of disguise. He used his watch camera to get pictures of his intended victim. You’d better guard Blackwell, Inspector, or you’re going to have your best suspect murdered.”
Even as Van spoke there came the sound of footsteps on the porch of the cottage, then a knock at the door. The Phantom’s hand dropped to the gun in his pocket. But he remembered immediately that there were detectives outside and that they would hardly let any suspicious strangers pass through the gate. He signaled Sarah to open the door.
She did so, and two of Farragut’s men came in escorting a Western Union messenger. The sight of the olive-drab uniform made Dick Van Loan catch a sharp breath. For the boy carried an oblong box under his arm, shaped like a miniature coffin, and his first words were:
“Package for Mr. Blackwell.”
Blackwell looked up angrily. “Take it away – I’ve ordered nothing.”
The boy stared around him, gaping when he saw the Phantom’s black mask.
“It was left at the office with a dollar for delivery out to this dump. Wanta sign fer it, or don’tcha?”
Blackwell made no move to accept the package; but Van snatched it from the surprised messenger’s arms. Without asking permission he began ripping it open. A moment later Farragut and the two detectives stood in grim-eyed wonder. In Van’s hands was one of the sinister dancing dolls with the face of Simon Blackwell on it.
Blackwell looked at it in rising answer. “More buffoonery!” he snapped.
“I’m afraid not, Mr. Blackwell,” said Van omin
ously. “Figures like this were sent to the other two murder victims this evening. You’re marked for death, as I stated a moment ago. You’ll be killed unless the police can protect you.”
For the first time Simon Blackwell looked frightened. Van drew Inspector Farragut aside.
“It’s good we came out here. Perhaps we can stop this next killing and learn something about the murderers to boot.”
“Right!” said Farragut. “I’ll station my men here and blast them to hell if they come.”
Van shook his head. “At most that will only scare the killers off. Take Blackwell back to Headquarters with you. Don’t let him know what you’re going to do, but hold him tonight. Keep him under cover – and I’ll come back here as his double.”
Farragut clutched his arm. “You can’t do that, Phantom. It’s insane – you’ll be murdered!”
“I hope not, Inspector. But I’ll be the bait that will draw the killers. Let’s get started at once.”
CHAPTER V
THE KILLER STRIKES
IN the private dining room of a small but luxurious cafe, late that night, a tall, dark man ground out his cigarette. He glanced at his wristwatch, pushed his empty liquor glass away with a decisive gesture, and rose.
“You’re not leavin’, Blackie?” The girl sitting across from him spoke peevishly, her rouged lips drooping and her moist, blue-lidded, sinful eyes glowing with sudden resentment.
“Gotta,” said the dark man quickly.
“Where you goin’?” The girl’s voice was sharp, quavering. But Blackie merely raised his eyebrows, stretched out his chin, and adjusted the knot of his tie. He didn’t speak again till she laid a tense hand on his arm, her fingers with their tinted nails looking like bloodstained claws. Her face had lost its beauty as anger possessed her.
She grew ugly, sluttish. “Blackie, if you’re two-timin’ -” she began.
The Dancing Doll Murders Page 3