The Emperor of Death

by G. Wayman Jones

  “Ruby — are you all right?”

  Dazed, bewildered, she climbed to her feet.

  “Yes.”

  “Then let’s get out of here. On the run. There’ll be a squad of police here any minute.” Ruby stumbled across the room to him, clung frantically to his arm. Together they backed toward the door. The Phantom pushed her out into the hallway and then with his gun still covering Pinelli removed the key from the lock of the door, stepped across the threshold and jerked the portal behind him.

  It was but a second’s work to turn the key in the lock and snap it off there. Then, half supporting, half dragging Ruby, the Phantom raced down the stairs. He was half way to the front door when the heavy thunder of a night stick resounded against the oaken panel. In mid-stride, the Phantom changed his direction and headed for the back stairs by which he had come.

  With a silent prayer on his lips that the house was not already surrounded, he half carried the fainting Ruby to the window he had jimmied earlier in the night. Somehow he lifted her over the sill and dropped down beside her in the courtyard.

  Then putting thoughts of all else save escape behind him, he picked up the girl in his arms and sped with her down a narrow alley that ran the length of the building. They emerged onto Seventy-sixth Street and the Phantom got his third break of the evening. A cab was parked at the curb, its driver asleep at the wheel. Opening the door he deposited the limp figure of Ruby on the back seat and jumped in beside her.

  He prodded the driver to wakefulness with the point of his gun.

  “Get rolling, big boy,” he ordered. “Get away from here fast.”

  The chauffeur stared at the masked face for a moment in startled fear, then jumped to obey. He shifted into gear, stepped on the gas and shot eastward toward Broadway.

  Ruby came to for a moment, long enough to get a glimpse of the masked figure beside her. Then, promptly obeying the dictates of over wrought nerves, she broke down in a fit of hysterical weeping. The Phantom tried to comfort her; to still the wracking sobs that parted her lips. But she was beyond words, beyond help.

  Her hysteria increased; she broke down completely. The Phantom realized that she needed care at once.

  He rapped on the glass partition separating him from the driver.

  “Pull up at the nearest cop,” he ordered.

  The driver was only too glad to obey. At the next corner he swung over to the curb before a burly blue-coated policeman.

  The Phantom leaned out the window of the car.

  “Listen officer, get this straight,” he said tersely. “I’m the Phantom. I have a woman here. She’s hysterical. Take her immediately to the City Prison Hospital. Put her under guard. No one is to speak to her. Give her the best of treatment, understand. I want to question her later. It’s important.”

  The officer nodded dumbly, but made no move.

  “Take the girl out of the car,” ordered the Phantom.

  The officer picked up Ruby in burly arms and headed for another taxi. The Phantom snapped out his last order to his driver.

  “Get away from here fast. Get to West End.”

  On a deserted side street he left the cab, saw it disappear around the first corner. Then only did he remove the silken mask from his face and with a lighter step than he had had in days he walked over to Broadway.

  He crammed himself into the first telephone booth; dropped a nickel in the slot and swiftly dialed the number of Police Headquarters.

  “This is the Phantom speaking,” he barked when the connection had gone through. “I want to speak to Inspector Armitage.” A pause, then: “Armitage — the Phantom. Two things — important things on the Hesterberg case. There’s an hysterical woman in the City Prison Hospital. Ruby Wooley by name. Detail a guard over her, a heavy guard. No one is to be allowed to see her until further orders from me. Secondly, broadcast to your men in the underworld. Have them pick up the trail of every man they see making the following signal.”

  Briefly he described to Inspector Armitage the signal that Ruby had passed on to him earlier in the evening. Then, sure that the inspector understood his order, he rang off with a curt good-night.

  It was with a light heart and a thin whistle on his lips that Van turned his steps at last toward Havens’s apartment. For the first time since he had been given the task of tracking to earth the Mad Red, he felt that he had the situation in hand.

  He had passed on the signal of the ring to Armitage; the inspector in turn would get in touch with the Secret Service. Now that everyone of the Russian’s men were tagged, they were bound to obtain results.

  Not only that, but there was still Ruby to be interviewed. He would see her on the morrow, when her hysterics would have subsided. That she had much of importance to tell him he was sure, and he was just as confident that he could induce her to talk.

  And then as a final dessert to his evening’s adventures — was Muriel.

  At precisely eleven-fifty-four that evening, a telephone jangled in the home of the Secretary of State of the United States. Despite the lateness of the hour, he dressed himself, bade farewell to his wife, and stalked into K Street, seeking a cab to take him to the White House.

  *****

  He never arrived. Upon anxious inquiry early that morning, the President of the United States denied having telephoned his Secretary of State on the previous evening.

  Two minutes after the Secretary of State had left his home Lewis Bond, the international banker, and perhaps the biggest man in the country, received a telephone call from his head groom. Bond was insanely interested in horses, and maintained an elaborate racing stable.

  On that particular night he was expecting the birth of a colt from which he expected great things. The groom had instructions to phone him when the delivery was over.

  In answer to his head groom’s summons, Bond threw on an old ulster overcoat and walked through the spacious grounds of his estate toward the stables.

  It is a matter of record that he never got there.

  Even while the Secretary of State was searching for the taxicab, even while Lewis Bond was walking ingenuously toward his brood mare and her progeny, Arthur Remis was having trouble with his automobile. Just outside Pittsburgh, as he was returning from a bibulous and riotous evening at his country club, a big Lincoln suddenly cut him off and almost ran him off the road.

  Remis stopped dead as did the Lincoln. Then Remis, the munition king, confident in the arrogance of superlative wealth, proceeded to tell the driver of the Lincoln precisely what Arthur Remis thought of him.

  The driver took it well, at least a ghost of a smile hovered over his face as Remis came close to him. That faint smile was the last thing that Remis saw for a few hours.

  Of a certainty, he never saw his own home that night.

  So it was with Naylor, with Carson, and others. Most of them knew each other, and if they were not acquainted the Fates provided for that contingency.

  They met that night.

  CHAPTER XVI

  HESTERBERG STAKES ALL

  THOUGH IT WAS two o’clock in the morning, the occupants of the Havens household were very much awake. Richard Van Loan, clad correctly in evening clothes, without an alias, was playing what was presumably a business call upon the publisher.

  They sat together in the library. The door was closed as they spoke in low tones. Without, in the room beyond, sat Muriel Havens. She read idly and wished inwardly that her father would choose someone other than the handsome Dick Van Loan to talk business with. She would much prefer to talk to Dick herself.

  Even though her father and Van had been closeted together for the better part of four hours she waited patiently until she could play hostess to the most eligible young bachelor in New York, until business should succumb to the social. But had she known it, she was destined not to speak to Van again that night.

  In the library a cheery fire flared in the grate, throwing dancing shadows on the wall beyond. Havens sat back in an arm-chair and flicked
the ash of his cigar carelessly on the rug.

  “Yes,” Van was saying. “The plans are complete now. Every important member of the underworld is being watched. With the cooperation of the police and Secret Service, my plans are at last working. Unless Hesterberg has already got his coup ready — and I don’t think he has — it’s only a matter of time now until his machine is completely broken.”

  Havens nodded. He indicated a late evening paper that lay on his desk.

  “It looks as if your scheme is working already. Did you see the paper?”

  “No. What’s in it?”

  “It seems that for the first time in years, in this town, there have been so few arrests in twenty-four hours. Hardly a major crime has been reported since midnight of yesterday. What do you think of that?”

  Van breathed deeply. His eyes held the other’s.

  “I think it’s dangerous as hell,” he said quietly. “Let me see that paper.”

  He picked it up and what he read corroborated the statement of Havens.

  “This is ominous,” he said. “This means that Hesterberg is ready for his big moment. He’s going to gamble everything now. He’s ready.”

  Havens stared at him in surprise.

  “Why? What do you mean? You read an item in the paper which seems to me to be good news, then you apparently get alarmed.”

  “I do,” said Van grimly. “And I’ll tell you why. There have been no arrests here for twenty-four hours. Why? Because there are so few criminals in the entire metropolitan district.”

  Havens looked at him blankly. Still he did not understand.

  “That means,” continued Van, “that Hesterberg has at last mobilized his men. He is ready to strike with all his murderous forces. They are mobilized somewhere, God knows where. There is little crime in New York because there are so few to commit a crime. They are all with Hesterberg at his base. We must act quickly, and think more quickly.”

  Havens looked alarmed as the full significance of the apparently cheering piece of news in the paper dawned upon him.

  “Then,” he said, “you’ve been too late?”

  Van reached for the telephone. “We’ll soon see,” he said tensely. “But I think you’re right.”

  He put in a call to Police Headquarters and asked for the deputy commissioner in charge. Then he said: “This is the Phantom. Have your men been following everyone who made the sign I told you about?”

  Then came the answer which confirmed his worst fears.

  “Why no. Our men haven’t been able to find anyone making that sign all over town. They’ve looked everywhere. I think your tip was phoney.”

  “Perhaps it was,” said Van as he replaced the receiver on the hook. He turned to Havens. “So,” he said bitterly, “even that plan has gone awry. Hesterberg has made his final move. As I suspected there’s not a member of his band left in town. They’re getting ready for their coup. And God only knows where they are! I’ll try something else.”

  He picked up the phone again and called a number.

  “Hello! City Prison Hospital. Give me the superintendent. Hello! I want to inquire about Ruby Wooley. How is she? Can she be seen at once on a matter of the utmost importance?”

  “Wooley?” repeated the voice at the other end of the wire. “Just a minute.”

  There was silence as the superintendent fingered through his files. At last he said: “Mrs. Wooley’s not here.”

  “Not there?” Apprehension trembled in Van’s voice.

  “No. She was moved a few hours ago by special order of the commissioner. He sent a car for her. I think it was a transfer to Welfare Island, but I’m not sure.”

  “Thanks,” said Van, and hung up.

  Then he turned to Havens.

  “Well,” he said a trifle bitterly. “That seems to be that.”

  “What’s happened?”

  “Hesterberg’s licked us again. He stole my star witness.” He told the publisher the story of his afternoon’s adventures. Havens sat open mouthed at the recital.

  “Then it must have been Wooley who somehow found out that I was sending the car to take you to the White House.”

  Van nodded. “But knowing that doesn’t help us now. This is Hesterberg’s hour.”

  Havens rose to his feet. “We must do something,” he said excitedly. “This apparently is our last chance. I’ll go inside and send Muriel off to bed. Then we can plan.”

  Van didn’t answer. He nodded his head abstractedly, and a frown distorted his brow as he grappled for a plan that could stop the Mad Red from the complete consummation of his plans.

  Havens went to the study door which led to the living room, and opened it. For a moment he stared wild-eyed across the threshold. Then he gave a shout of alarm.

  “Van. She’s gone! Look here!”

  In an instant Van Loan was at his side. His receptive eyes swept the room hastily. The portieres which hung over the doorway from the hall were torn down. Lying on the floor by the window lay Havens’s butler bound and gagged, his eyes turned appealingly toward his employer.

  Van raced across the room, and hastily severed the man’s bonds. Havens stared ashen-faced, speechless. The butler came to his feet stiffly. Van questioned him abruptly.

  “Where’s Miss Havens?”

  “They took her out, sir. They chloroformed her.”

  “Why?”

  “Two men, sir. Armed with revolvers. They chloroformed her and bound me up.”

  “How long ago?”

  “About fifteen minutes, sir.”

  “How do you account for the fact that we didn’t hear them in the study?”

  “They worked very quietly, sir. Efficiently. They had the guns on us and we didn’t dare make a move. Desperate characters, sir.”

  “Yes,” said Van grimly.

  Havens tore across the room and seized Van by the coat lapels.

  “The dogs,” he said. “The filthy dogs. Now they’ve got Muriel in this. We’ve got to get her out, Van. We’ve got to.”

  Van removed the other’s trembling fingers from his coat.

  “Take it easy,” he said soothingly. “There’s no use going off the handle. Look, what’s that?”

  His eyes noted a white envelope lying on the table in the center of the room. In a scrawling hand, it was addressed to Frank Havens.

  Van’s index finger ripped open the flap. He extricated a stiff piece of notepaper. He glanced at its message, then folded it again in his hand.

  “You may go,” he said to the butler. “Mr. Havens and myself will be in the library if you want us. Come on, Frank.”

  He took Havens’s arm and led him back to the library. He forced his friend into a chair and poured him a stiff shot of brandy. Like a man in a coma, Havens obeyed the other’s directions.

  “Now,” said Van as he seated himself on the other side of the desk, “pull yourself together, man. We can only win this fight, we can only get Muriel back to safety if we avoid panic. Now, come on, snap out of it.”

  With a tremendous effort, Havens forgot that he was a frantic father. He realized that calmness, coolness were the prime qualities needed in this crisis. He turned a wan face to Van, but when he spoke his voice was steady enough.

  “All right,” he said. “I’ll do my best. What now?”

  For answer Van handed him the paper he had found on the table outside. It read:

  Havens:

  At exactly 3 A.M., turn your radio dials until you tune in on the message I have for you.

  Hesterberg.

  The publisher crumpled the paper in his hand.

  “What does that mean?” he asked hoarsely.

  Van was already at the radio. “We’ll soon find out,” he said grimly as his sensitive fingers fumbled at the dials.

  The clock on the mantel indicated that it was slightly after three o’clock. All the regular stations were shut off at this hour, The two men sat tense and silent in the room, as Van twisted the dials. Nothing save the mechanical b
urr of static came through the speaker.

  Then at last as the condensers whirled beneath Van’s fingers, they caught the sound of a human voice — a familiar voice. The dials stopped their timeless whirling. Carefully Van oriented them. The voice became clearer, articulate. The two men exchanged glances as they recognized it as that of Hesterberg.

  “Havens,” it said. “You should have picked me up by now. I shall repeat this message at five minute intervals for the next hour in any event. I am broadcasting this from my car traveling to my base. You will be unable to trace the broadcast. I sincerely hope that our mutual friend, the Phantom, is listening in with you. What I have to say will also interest him.”

  The voice stopped for a moment. Havens was frozen to immobility in his chair. His ears ached as he strained them, fearing to miss a word that might deal with the fate of his daughter. Van smoked a cigarette with an air of casualness which he was far from feeling.

  “I am ready,” said Hesterberg. “I am ready to put into execution the coup that I have planned for so long. Soon my emissaries sail for foreign countries. In their possession are enough international documents to start a dozen wars. They will deliver them to the right people, to the people who have been unwittingly betrayed by other diplomats.”

  Again he paused, perhaps, to enjoy his complete triumph for a moment.

  “There is more than that, Havens. I am now in a certain city not far from New York. I am in complete control. I speak to you via the radio because all lines of communication from here are cut. There is no phone. There is no telegraph. My men have seen to that. But I have other things here. I have the Secretary of State of the United States. I have Lewis Bond, the banker. I have Remis, the munitions man. I have Naylor, the steel man. But I won’t bore you. I have other men, influential and wealthy. And their ransom shall be the granting of the credits to Russia that I desire. My men are already in communication with their families. And in a short time the cables will be granting Russia what I demand.”

  “Good God,” said Van. “He’s done it!”

  But Havens, intent on the disposition of his own daughter, paid scant attention to the fact that the madman who spoke to them was within an ace of wrecking civilization. The publisher sat upright in his chair at the next words.