The Phantom Detective - The Dancing Doll Murders

by Robert Wallace

  “What the hell took you so long, Huston? How many murders were there that you had to cover tonight?”

  “I’ll tell you in a minute,” said Steve. “It was one of the screwiest killings I ever ran into. A dancing doll with the face of the guy that’s killed on it. Tie that if you can! But first let me introduce Mr. Squires, one of the witnesses. He saw the three guys come in the window and one of ‘em throw a toadsticker at Winstead. He could give us a first-hand story. But that’s not what be’s here for. He thinks there’s going to be more murders. He wants to get in touch with the Phantom.”

  “The Phantom?” A look of cautious appraisal came into Frank Havens’s eyes.

  “Yeah. He says this murder won’t be the only one, and that an organized bunch of men may not be able to tackle it. If we’ll locate the Phantom for him he promises to turn over a clue.”

  “So?” Havens drew in his breath. Then he carefully closed the door of the office, and led the men to his inner sanctum beyond, through the windows of which the lights of the city showed, shining up like a thousand stars in an inverted heaven. He turned and faced Squires.

  “Being a witness to a murder like this must have been tough. I know how it upset you. But I don’t think I can help. I’m not at liberty right now — even admitting I could — to call the Phantom. If you know anything about this murder go to the police.”

  “I can’t,” said Squires flatly. “I refuse to make any general statement. It might mean that I would be called into court to testify later. I —”

  He stopped speaking as the buzzer on Havens’s desk sounded. Havens took a receiver off a hook, listened for a moment, then turned back to Squires.

  “There’s a boy outside with a package for you. I’ll have him bring it in.”

  Jason Squires’s face went white again. “A package for me! I just got here. Nobody knows —”

  An office boy came in bearing an oblong package which he dropped on the publisher’s desk. “A guy just left this downstairs, Mr. Havens.”

  The label on the package read:

  Mr. Jason Squires

  c/o Mr. Frank Havens

  The Clarion

  City

  Squires screamed when he saw it, a thick scream as though a clot of blood had formed in his throat. “My God! How did they know I was here? They must have followed —”

  Steve Huston was quivering with excitement. “What is it, Squires? Aren’t you gonna open it?”

  “No, no — I want police protection!”

  “But it’s only a small box,” persisted Huston, adding, as he felt it:

  “It’s too light for a bomb.”

  “You open it if you want to. But call the police. Get detectives here immediately.”

  Steve Huston untied the string of the box and slipped the paper off. He raised the lid, gasped, and fingers of dread clutched at his stomach when he saw what it, was. The waxen, corpselike face of a small doll stared up at him.

  That face bore a striking resem­blance to Jason Squires. His thin lips were there; his high forehead. There was no dagger this time. But holes had been jabbed in the doll’s shirt front. The whole of it had been smeared hideously with crimson.

  “It’s one of them — one of the dancing dolls!” croaked Squires. “Don’t let anyone in! I’m going to be murdered!”

  Frank Havens’s face had gone grim now. “Take it easy!” he said. “You’re all right here. I’ll get in touch with the police. You’d better tell them the facts — straight — and give them this clue you mentioned.”

  “The clue!” Squires’s palsied hand reached into his pocket and brought something out — a small white envelope. “I have it here! But the police will only laugh at me — and the killer will deny it. That’s why I want — the Phantom.”

  He licked his lips, started to say something more. But at that instant a side door of Havens’s sanctum, leading to an emergency stair way opened with a slithering whisper. A ghost from Hell seemed to be standing there; a crouching figure with inhumanly bright eyes and with a featureless, white-masked face. But the ugly, sawed-off weapon in his hands was as real as death.

  Havens and Steve Huston stared dumbfounded. Squires gave a quavering cry of terror, high-pitched, horrible, which held in it a certain presentiment of doom. He tried to fling himself sideward behind Havens’s heavy oak desk. But the sawed-off gun in the hands of the stranger chattered wickedly. Flame spewed from its muzzle.

  Bullets lashed against Squires’s chest with insane fury, whipping his flesh to a bloody froth. He fell squalling, sobbing, flopping grotesquely. And the gun continued its evil rat-tat even after he lay still, stitching slugs along the length of his body till the bones themselves were shattered in a dozen places.

  Then in an instant, as quickly as he had come, the door slammed and the white-masked man was gone. They could hear his feet clattering on the steel stairs as he plunged downward. Huston leaped with a hoarse cry for the telephone. He almost fell over the broken, crimson-smeared body of Squires. The lawyer lay face down, stone dead, still clutching the clue that he had planned to hand over to the Phantom.

  CHAPTER III

  HELL’S BEACON

  OUT on the wintry harbor, near the Staten Island shore, a trim Diesel yacht swung in the tide. She was fueled and provisioned for a cruise in Southern waters. Her skipper was under orders to weigh anchor within the hour. The boat belonged to the scion of a wealthy family, son of one of the country’s best known chain store merchants.

  The white-and-gold central cabin of the big yacht held a glamorous group of social lights. Young men in tails, tuxedos, and yachting regalia. Girls dressed in the smartest low-cut evening gowns from ultra-fashionable shops along Fifth Avenue.

  Courteous, well trained English stewards moved about bearing trays of liquor; small, appetizing cocktail sausages; and diamond-shaped sandwiches of Russian caviar, Schweit­zerkäse, and Rocquefort. A string ensemble played a special transcription of Auf Wiedersehen.

  It was a farewell to those who must go ashore presently, while their lucky friends set sail for balmy Southern waters.

  A tall young man in a trim blue yachting jacket struck a theatrical pose and softly crooned the plaintive German melody along with the orchestra in a voice that would have done credit to a Metropolitan Opera singer.

  “Dick, you sing divinely,” gushed a pretty debutante. “It makes quivers run up my back. I’m glad I’m going on this cruise with you.” She turned a smiling face to him.

  The young man bowed at the compliment, a slightly mocking look in his dark eyes. “Singing isn’t all I do well, my dear. Wait till we get under that much publicized tropic moon!”

  The debutante blushed in confusion, while laughter rose around her. The man she’d addressed as “Dick” was Richard Curtis Van Loan, society idler, bon vivant, and gaily sardonic spender of the millions his father had grubbed to accumulate.

  He was one of the most sought after bachelors in the city, a man whom mothers with marriageable daughters watched constantly with hopeful, appraising eyes. A man who was envied by his friends, but never taken too seriously, because he didn’t appear to have a serious thought in the world nor any useful function. He had been invited on the cruise to add life to the party. He had accepted gaily with the half bored, half gallant air he always assumed in his social relations.

  Only one person in the world knew that Richard Curtis Van Loan, son of wealth and supposedly flippant wastrel, was the internationally famous Phantom — the mysterious detective genius who had faced death stoically scores of times along the black alleys of the underworld. Wrongdoers feared him as a force for justice, unknown, unseen, unpredictable. The police of a dozen countries, including Scotland Yard, the Paris Sureté, and the celebrated Bureau of Criminal Intelligence in Budapest, respected him.

  Yet only one man, Frank Havens of the Clarion, knew his true identity; knew that Richard Van Loan’s adventurous, daring spirit had rebelled against a life of routine business, and that he had d
eliberately taken up and schooled himself in all the intricacies of one of the most dangerous vocations on earth. For the Phantom had a talent for disguise that seemed to give him a thousand different faces. He was elusive as a shadow, as hard to hold as the night wind.

  After accepting the invitation to go cruising, Van had told Frank Havens jokingly that nothing short of the most startling crime on the police calendar could interrupt his holiday. And Havens had taken him at his word.

  “Don’t worry, Van, I won’t bother you. The police can handle their own dirty work.”

  But now Van noticed a sudden crimson sheen out on the oily surface of the harbor. It came and went as he glanced idly out the cabin windows, as if some mysterious devil’s fire were playing over the sea tonight.

  Van’s nostrils flared for a brief instant. Balancing his cocktail, he crossed the yacht’s cabin and eased himself out on the chilly deck. He looked back over the harbor toward the city. There in the sky was a winking, blood-red light. In and out, it blinked, like the eye of a satanic being beckoning, hinting of some high carnival in Hell, telling Van that the Phantom could not rest.

  For in all the city’s teeming millions Van knew that that red light was meant for him. It was high up in the Clarion tower; the light used to broadcast election returns, and now broadcasting to him that Havens wanted to see him; that the bloody hand of crime had struck the city; that the Phantom was called to his self-appointed job.

  Dick Van Loan turned and went back into the cabin. His eyes were grave, though his lips were still smiling. He tossed off his cocktail, went to his host, and spoke casually.

  “Sorry, old man, I’ve just thought of something — a deal I’d forgotten. I’ve got to excuse myself from this trip, much as I’d like to go with you.”

  “Look here, Dick, you can’t run out on a fellow like that! I’ve made all arrangements — reservations at Havana — and, besides, we want you —”

  “Mighty swell of you, Wally. I’m sorry as hell — but this deal won’t wait. I’ll grab my luggage. You won’t mind if I skip back in the yacht’s tender?”

  There was something in Dick Van Loan’s eyes when he made up his mind that didn’t encourage argument. His host sensed it, shrugged despairingly.

  Van didn’t wait to say good-by to everyone. That red light was still winking. Already Van had stopped thinking of the delights of the cruise. His heart was beating faster than it had for weeks. The thrill of excitement, of the chase, was upon him.

  The yacht’s tender carried him back across the harbor. Van docked near the Battery, took a cab uptown. An inner voice urged him to hurry. Havens wouldn’t have called him back from the cruise if hell wasn’t popping. Whatever had happened, Van wanted to get started while the trail was still fresh.

  Yet there were certain things that had to be done. He ­couldn’t go in his yachting jacket; and, as the Phantom, he made it a point never to appear with his own true features.

  He got the cab driver to let him out at an apartment house uptown. But he didn’t enter. When the cab had rolled away Dick Van Loan walked a full block away from the dwelling, abruptly turned a corner, and disappeared in the inky darkness down a dark, narrow alley.

  Five minutes later, walking by sense of direction alone, he approached a small building that stood all by itself. He thrust a queer-shaped key into a special multiple lock. He entered, closed the door after him, and his finger found a familiar light switch. The Phantom was in the secret laboratory-workshop he had built.

  Here were many of the things that made it possible for him to retain his position as one of the world’s foremost crime fighters. In dimensions the place was modest. But its equipment was up-to-date to the last degree.

  Its optical apparatus included tiny, lightning-fast reflex cameras with telephoto and wide-angle lenses, and one of the uncanny ultra-violet cameras used to detect forgeries. There were bullet microscopes and comparison microscopes; the famous Greenough microscope for the scientific detection of clues.

  A crime library numbered more than a thousand volumes and was written in five different languages. There was an outfit for the investigation of all toxic substances, with chemicals which the Phantom had imported from Germany, ­Swit­zerland, and France. Complete equipment for analyzing bloodstains, with benzidine and hydrogen for the hemoglobin test, serum for the method suggested by Bayles of Paris, and a spectroscope to be used in connection with blood colloids, after the manner advocated by the eminent Dr. Wilhelm Zangemeister of Konigsberg.

  In a concealed closet was a small arsenal of the world’s most deadly explosive weapons: Lugers, Webleys, Colts, and strange guns from many different nations. There was a rack of knives also, varying from the thinnest Sicilian stiletto to a broad-bladed, serpentine Malay kris. There was an electric stove, a small electric smelting furnace, a miniature lathe with diamond-set tools, numerous bank keys, mercury vapor lights, three-way mirrors, and an elaborate dressing table with all the material for the Phantom’s most ingenious im­personations.

  The laboratory had been rented and outfitted many months ago by a stoop-shouldered old fellow with a scraggly, greyish beard and a pair of thick-lensed glasses which made him look like a gentle owl. The bearded ancient claimed that he was a research chemist, a Dr. Paul Bendix, and only Frank Havens knew that Dr. Paul Bendix and the Phantom were one.

  Van took off his yachting clothes and made up quickly. Garments for a hundred impersonations were stowed away in closets in the place. Some of those clothes had been with him on desperate adventures. They held knife cuts and bullet holes — proof that the grey wings of death had often brushed close to the Phantom.

  This evening Van needed only to change into another suit and use his flat auxiliary make-up kit. He greyed his hair at the temples, slipped an ingenious crescent-shaped celluloid plate under his upper lip against the gum. This single touch changed the lines of his keen-featured face. He added to it by darkening and thickening the eyebrows, and by widening his cheeks with spongy pads of rubber clamped inside them against his wisdom teeth.

  His mirror reflected the face of a heavy-featured and pompous-looking stranger. A man trained to search out the hidden details of facial identity might still have recognized Richard Curtis Van Loan; but only after long study and in the most favorable lights. Van knew that this disguise would serve him when he contacted Frank Havens to see what the publisher had on his mind. In case a more elaborate disguise might be needed later he had his ever present make-up kit.

  IN his right coat pocket he carried a small flat automatic. And, deep in his trousers pocket, was something that the police everywhere had learned to respect — a small plate of purest platinum set with diamonds in the form of a tiny mask, the Phantom’s badge of authenticity. The quick display of that in one cupped hand was enough to gain him entrance into the most official quarters.

  The Phantom was ready now. He left his laboratory by a back exit, sliding a panel open, groping his way skillfully in the dark until he found himself in one of several garages where he kept specially designed, super-fast cars.

  He did not care to be conspicuous this evening. The car he got into after he had pushed back the garage door was a small coupé of standard make, its weighted chassis and super-charged motor hidden by conventional lines.

  He drove straight to the Clarion offices. His pulses quickened as he noted that there were a half dozen police cars strung along in front of the building. Bluecoats were keeping on the move the people who walked past.

  Van recognized the big sedan of Inspector Farragut of the Homicide Bureau standing directly in front of the building’s main door. Fear gnawed suddenly at his mind. What if something had happened to his friend Frank Havens?

  He breathed more easily when a scared-looking elevator operator assured him that Havens was all right, but that a stranger, a lawyer guy, had been bumped off in the publisher’s office.

  Van handed a card marked “Alex Barry” to Havens’s bespectacled secretary, and said: “I’m the
man he asked to see from Oceanic Insurance.”

  The secretary looked doubtful. Havens appeared in the door of his inner office.

  “I didn’t ask for any insurance. Tell him to get out. This is a hell of a time to come and try to sell —”

  He stopped speaking suddenly, for the man, “Barry,” had reached up with one hand and was tugging speculatively at the lobe of his ear. That simple gesture was one agreed upon between Havens and the Phantom. Intense relief showed on Havens’s face.

  “Come right in. I didn’t realize you were the Mr. Barry when I spoke as I did.”

  Havens ushered him into his inner office, where the corpse of Jason Squires still lay. But before he introduced him as the Phantom he pulled him into a rear alcove and said in a low voice “I hated to call you, Van. I wouldn’t have if it hadn’t seemed absolutely imperative.”

  “What’s on your mind?”

  “That fellow out there, a man named Squires, was murdered right here in my office — shot by a gunman who sneaked up the emergency stairway, did his damnable work, and then got away. Squires was the second man killed tonight by the same bunch of murderers. But that wasn’t the only reason I called you. It was because Squires knew of your reputation and wanted to see you. He had a clue for you, and was killed when Steve Huston brought him here. You’re in this thing already, Van, up to your neck, whether you like it or not.” Van listened while Havens hurried on, giving him all the details.

  Then Van said quickly: “This clue — have you seen it?”

  “Yes,” answered Havens. “Inspector Farragut has it now. But I’m afraid it isn’t going to help any. It’s nothing but a little chunk of clay.”