The Emperor of Death

by G. Wayman Jones

  Then, at last, after his brain had formulated his plan, he permitted his aching mind to relax. For three hours he slept. Then he rose, dressed, filled a suitcase with a number of things which might be useful to him, and telephoned for his roadster. And in his pocket reposed the torn half of the papers that Hesterberg needed badly.

  Half an hour later, as the late autumn sun was streaking down over the horizon to light the other half of the world, he stared out up the Post Road. His face was set and grim, his eyes determined and steady and his heart was a steadfast courage — a courage, which he was destined to tax to the utmost iota ere that black night had passed.

  For the last time the Phantom had taken the trail of the Mad Red — and this time it would be a battle to the death!

  CHAPTER XVIII

  EDGETOWN

  THE NIGHT came down. The twin headlights of Van’s car cut two holes through the blackness. Gray lay the road beneath their yellow glare. On either side, trees waved gaunt and ghostly arms to the sky, while far ahead the friendly lights of a town twinkled cheerily for a moment, then were lost to sight as a hill reared itself in Van’s line of vision.

  From time to time he consulted a map which he had pinned to the dashboard. He fully expected that there would be no lights to indicate Edgetown. Hesterberg had in all probability closed every shutter, cut every wire, to insure that no one could interfere with him now, that no one could take from him his hostages with which he could enforce his will.

  Chances were that the residents of the town had been made prisoners also. Hesterberg could not afford to let them walk the streets unmolested. A footnote on Van’s map told him that Edgetown was off the railroad line, and that the population was slightly under a thousand.

  As he came within ten miles of the town he slowed down and considered some important things. Undoubtedly the Russian had established his guards. A picket line, probably was thrown out around the villa. Van considered his car. Should he drive it through the picket lines or should he leave it without?

  Finally he decided to put on the false license plates which he carried in his suitcase and drive right in. It was dark and the pickets would not pay much attention to the car if they were sure that it was Sligo, the evil-eyed cripple who was passing into the town.

  When a glance at his map showed him that he was within four miles of the town, he ran the roadster onto the shoulders of the road and came to a full stop.

  He opened the suitcase and withdrew a box of make-up. Staring into the mirror over the windshield, he dexterously drew the grease paint over his face. Deft fingers applied black to his eyebrows. Small pieces of flesh-colored wax distorted his features, and slowly before the mirror, the grim face of Richard Van Loan evolved to the ugly countenance of Sligo.

  The likeness was so remarkable, so appalling, that it would have certainly passed muster before the cripple’s own mother. But Van was not done yet. From his pocket he took an eye-dropper. He lifted it to his eye. His tongue closed on his teeth, for he knew the pain this was going to cause him.

  Then with a firm hand he squeezed the end of the dropper. The drug deluged his eyeball. He grimaced with pain. Then he repeated the process on the other eye. For a full minute he sat there, suffering untold agony. Then, at last, as the smarting died away, he glanced in the mirror, and exultation beat within his heart.

  For now the final barrier was past. His eyes of snapping black had become the steely glittering orbs of Sligo, the master hypnotist.

  He climbed out of the car, changed the plates, then, as nonchalantly as if he had been in his own bedroom, he changed into the clothes which Havens had taken from the dead body of the man he was impersonating.

  Once back behind the wheel he lit a cigarette, stepped on the gas and shot ahead through the night to meet — Death, Triumph, or whatever the gods had in store for him at Edgetown.

  He ran the car over the dirt road slowly. Behind him the main ribbon of concrete stretched from New York to Albany, but here on this little muddy highway which led to his destination, the night seemed darker than before, darker and more ominous.

  A voice suddenly hailed him.

  “Hey, there! Who is that?”

  He stepped on the brake and answered: “Sligo. I just got in from town.”

  A figure approached in the darkness, a revolver held in its hand. It bent over and peered at Van uncertainly.

  “What’s the password?”

  Van swallowed. Here was a contingency he had overlooked. He had figured on his identity as the cripple getting him by. Here was an unlooked-for complication. He assumed an anger he was far from feeling as he threw the car in first, and raced the motor.

  “I’m Sligo,” he said again. “I just got here. I’ve important news for the boss. Password, hell!”

  The car moved slowly. The figure with the revolver leaped on the running board.

  “I don’t care who you are. What’s the password? What’s the —”

  Another figure approached and spoke with a voice of authority.

  “What’s wrong here?”

  “This guy won’t give the password. He —”

  Van cut in. “I’m Sligo. Important message for the chief. I —”

  A flashlight tore the darkness away from his face. His heart pounded violently, but he made no perceptible sign of what went on in his emotions at that moment. The authoritative voice said: “Of course, it’s Sligo. What the hell’s the idea of holding him up? Go ahead, pal.”

  The false Sligo went ahead, and now his heart beat almost as loudly as his engine raced.

  The town was in utter darkness. No light was lit, and with all lines of communication cut, Edgetown was at that moment as isolated as any remote spot of the world.

  As Van drove into the single street of the town, he saw a number of men hurrying to and fro through the night. They paid scant attention to him as he parked the car and climbed down from the driver’s seat. One or two called his name and he mumbled a reply. Then he left the car and as his eyes became accustomed to the lack of light, took stock of his surroundings. Lights showed through chinks of the drawn shades of the houses which lined the street. He heard a low hum of voices, and despite the fact that he saw nothing tangible there was an air of bustle about the place. He sensed rather than saw the activity which went on behind those drawn curtains.

  A figure passed him. Van touched his arm and said gruffly:

  “Where’s Hesterberg?”

  The man peered at him closely.

  “Oh, it’s you, Sligo. Why, I guess the boss is in his office.” He jerked a thumb in the direction of a house across the street. “Did you look there?”

  Van did not wait for an answer. He crossed the street, nodded to the man on guard at the door and entered the three-story brick building which was the largest structure the small town boasted.

  Despite the inherent courage that was in his heart, Van could not fight off the feeling of apprehension that came over him as he entered the Mad Red’s Headquarters. They had been at grips before, but now came the death battle. It was all or nothing for each of them. Only one of them would leave this place alive.

  Van had no set plan.

  He first must ascertain how far Hesterberg had gone with his plans, and if possible delay his emissaries and guard his prisoners from harm until such time as Havens would send help.

  Thus far his disguise had passed muster. It was the most complete thing of its kind he had ever achieved. Yet danger lay ahead. Undoubtedly Sligo was one of Hesterberg’s most trusted lieutenants, When they met there would be talk.

  He must be wary. A single false move on his part conversationally would arouse the Russian’s suspicions.

  He mounted a flight of stairs, then stopped dead, pressing himself flat against the wall. A door was open on the landing, and through it the hum of static came to his ears. Then the metallic sound of a voice that issued from a loudspeaker. Van paused a moment and listened. Then a nauseating fear swept over him; a fear that after all
his master-minding he was too late.

  There were reports that were blaring forth over the loudspeaker. Reports from Hesterberg’s lieutenants as each cog in the gigantic whole of his scheme was fitted into place.

  “Number 6 reporting to Hesterberg,” blared the loudspeaker. “Sailing on Morganitic at midnight. All plans consummated.”

  Van’s eyes narrowed and his hands clenched into hard fists as he caught the next message as it throbbed triumphantly out of the speaker.

  “Number 3 reporting to Hesterberg. Morton Syndicate cabling credit Soviet. Credit at our terms. Great success.”

  “Number 8 calling Hesterberg. President guarantees immediate recognition. Sailing Empire immediately.”

  Van stood there by the threshold of the radio room, stupefied for a moment. In quick succession new reports came in, each one giving the details of some master stroke the Russian had brought to a successful conclusion.

  The sudden appalling realization that he had failed paralyzed his limbs. But then a moment later his old, indomitable will asserted itself. He had been tempered too finely in the white heat of conflict to accept defeat until the last shot was fired.

  He still had a chance — a wild fantastic chance, but desperate men cannot choose their odds. Pulling himself together, he assumed the shambling gait of Sligo, the cripple, and slouched into the radio room.

  He was quick to note a sheaf of messages before the operator and his trained eyes told him immediately that some of them were in code. He swaggered up to the operator’s desk, confident in his disguise insomuch as it had so far passed muster without question. He reached confidently for a blank form and a pencil.

  “How are the reports coming in?” he asked casually.

  “Great. In the bag,” replied the operator.

  Van wasted no more time on idle talk. He applied himself to the blank form and rapidly wrote a message in the code that he and Havens had used on frequent occasions before.

  The message was terse, explicit, but emphatic. Havens was to get in touch with the President at once and to stop all boats from sailing from the United States. Further, he was to close down all cable offices and all transatlantic telephone wires. No message, no word, no person should leave the United States that night.

  And then, after that had been accomplished — but only after — the President was to rush a company of militia with all speed to Edgetown.

  Van signed his name in code and shoved the message across the desk to the operator.

  “Here,” he ordered tersely. “Hesterberg wants this message sent out at once. Repeat it at five minute intervals for the next half-hour. Important. Clear the air for it.”

  The operator picked up the blank and scanned it hurriedly. Van saw the cloud of suspicion pass over his face and prepared for action.

  “But this isn’t our code,” protested the operator.

  “No,” answered Van with heat. “There’s been a traitor some place and the old code leaked out. He’s changed it. Get busy and hammer it out.”

  Assuming that his word was law, he waited no longer to argue the point, turned on his heel and left the room. With a slow tread he mounted the remaining steps that led to Hesterberg’s office. A wave of exultation swept over him as he heard the intermittent buzz and whine of the transmitter as his message went on the air.

  Please God it would be picked up by Havens; please God it would be in time.

  CHAPTER XIX

  AN OLD TRICK

  HESTERBERG’S eyes lit up as be recognized the man he had sent to retrieve his torn papers.

  “Good,” he said. “You’re back. What luck?”

  Van achieved the slow distorted grin that he had seen Sligo use. By way of answer he withdrew the papers from his pocket and handed them to the Russian. Hesterberg took them and gloated audibly.

  “Good,” he said again. “This is all we need. I’ll send a man out with these at once. This, Sligo, is the end. We have won.”

  Still Van did not speak. He hardly dared presume upon his luck. Apparently, as well as Hesterberg knew the cripple, he had not penetrated the Phantom’s disguise. The Russian crossed the room and slapped the cripple heartily on the shoulder.

  “Fine work,” he said. “By the way, what did Conners say?”

  Van’s heart sank, and his brain raced. This was the one thing he had been afraid of — that Hesterberg would refer to some subject of which he — Van — knew nothing. He stalled for time.

  “Who?” he said.

  Hesterberg shot, a swift glance at him. “Conners?” he repeated. “Did you see him?”

  “Oh, Conners? Yeah, I saw him.”

  “What did he say?”

  “Nothing. Everything was okay.”

  Hesterberg’s eyes narrowed. A thin cruel smile crossed his lips. “Well,” he said with dripping suavity, “isn’t that just dandy?”

  Quickly he crossed the room and before Van could divine his purpose he drew back his right foot and kicked the detective brutally in the shin.

  The sharp pain of the kick caused Van to momentarily forget everything. He sprang to his feet, uttering a sharp exclamation of anguish. Hesterberg stepped back a pace and regarded him with vast satisfaction. Then his voice rang out, clear and commanding.

  “Seize that man!”

  Strong arms gripped Van’s shoulders. A hot shooting pain ran up his leg still. Hesterberg surveyed him with triumphant eyes. He bowed ironically.

  “I thank you, Mr. Phantom," he said. “I thank you for bringing me my documents in person. I appreciate the honor you have paid me.”

  Van said nothing. Hesterberg had penetrated his disguise. Yet he had saved something from the wreckage. At least he had the satisfaction of knowing that by now there was an even chance of the Mad Red’s plans being frustrated. If Havens had picked up his message, the Russian’s men could never leave the country. The cables could not be sent.

  No, now it narrowed down to his own life, a point which did not trouble him much. But as he thought of Muriel, and the others whom Hesterberg would not hesitate to sacrifice if it suited his purpose, his heart grew heavy within him.

  “I would suggest,” Hesterberg was saying, “that the next time you assume a disguise, you study the physical peculiarities of your subject. You see, Sligo had an extremely weak chest. I used to slap him on the back merely for the sadistic pleasure I derived from seeing him wince. You did not move.”

  Van said nothing. He simply stared into the flaming maniacal eyes of the Mad Red, and the message he read there was most assuredly not one of mercy.

  “Yes,” continued Hesterberg, “then merely to corroborate my suspicions, I invented Conners. There’s no such person. Then, to really prove my point beyond all doubt I kicked you in the shin, the self-same shin of Sligo’s which has been paralyzed for years.”

  Van held his head up. His jaw was firm. Very well, here was Death. He had courted danger. He had eschewed security. Here was the result. The reaper stretched out the scythe to mow him down. And before he went, there was but one request he had to make of the Gods. Let him die as he had lived — game, courageous — like a man.

  His eyes met Hesterberg’s. A faint smile crossed his lips. “Very well,” he said. “It’s your trick, Hesterberg. And it’s your play. What are you doing?”

  Hesterberg smiled too. But the grimace was not engendered by the same motives as Van’s. There was hate in that smile — hate and murder. And when he spoke his voice was thick with anticipation of the revenge he would take of this man who had foiled him so often.

  “Take him away,” he said. “Throw him in the cell next to the others. They’re in six. Put him in five alone. I’ll attend to him personally later on. We must attend to many other things first.”

  Rough hands dragged Van away. He was escorted down the stairs to a building further down the street. He was pushed up an iron ladder to what he assumed was the second tier of the county jail. On the landing which was unlit he dimly made out the doors of three cells. Th
ey were numbered from right to left: four, five, six. That apparently inconsequential fact stuck crazily in his memory; and he lived to thank the fates that it did.

  A single guard stood below. Van had seen him but vaguely in the pallid moonlight which poured through the iron bars over the window at the far end of the corridor.

  The grated door of the center cell number five was pulled open. Van was flung roughly inside. Then the door clanged to irrevocably. Probably never to open again till the bony fingers of Death himself turned the key.

  He heard the low hum of excited voices in the next cell — number six. A voice said ponderously: “Who is that? Another one of us?”

  There was no further need for concealment of his identity, Van reflected bitterly. When Hesterberg came to kill him, he would surely rip the disguise from his face to discover the real identity of his enemy.

  “It’s the Phantom,” he whispered. “Who’s there?”

  He heard a gasp of amazement from behind the wall. The slow ponderous voice said again: “Is there any hope? Or does this madman intend to kill us all?”

  Van heard a sharp intake of breath from the other cell. He disguised his voice carefully. “Is the girl there?” he asked.

  Then Muriel’s voice came to him, firm and clear:

  “Yes,” she said. “Have you any word from my father?”

  “He is well, and you shall soon see him,” said Van, relief flooding him as he realized that she was safe. A babel of voices floated through the wall, as the hostages took new hope now that the Phantom was here. Van silenced them.

  “Not so loud,” he counseled in a whisper. “We shall be overheard by the guard downstairs. No more talking. I must think. We still have a chance. But I must ask you to remain quiet in your cells if you value your lives. Not a word of conversation even among yourselves. Do nothing until you hear from me.”