The Phantom Detective - The Dancing Doll Murders

by Robert Wallace

  And those watching on the floors below and seeing that the hand on the dial pointed to 4 relaxed their watchfulness. The kill would be made, they thought, where the chase had first started. But Dick Van Loan was clinging to the counterweight now at street level.

  He climbed off silently, crossed the elevator pit, and ap­proached the inside handle of the door again. He opened it cautiously, inch by inch, but now there was no burst of firing.

  The gunmen below had moved away from the elevator exit. One was standing with his back turned, looking up the side stairway. Another had gone to the street door in front. The rest were not in sight.

  Van pressed down on the handle, drew the doors wide, and stepped out. The sound of them made the nearest killer whirl. Van’s bullet caught him in the shoulder and spun him around.

  The man in front cried out, tried to get his gun into action. Van’s savagely slammed shots unnerved him, made him fumble and lose his aim. Van was upon him in almost an instant, and the man was staggering back.

  Van’s gun streaked flame again, flinging hot lead against the hands that held the machine-gun. The man dropped his weapon with a shrill scream of terror and dangled bloody wrists. Van was by him and out the street door in a second, leaving the bedlam of the garage behind.

  UNDER its grotesque disguise of Dopey, the Phantom’s face was hawklike. His eyes were snapping. He had escaped, but he must not lose the trail of the killers. He sensed what their next move would be. Having failed to get their victim, knowing that their hideout had been discovered they would leave the garage as rats leave a sinking ship.

  And Van was right. He had no more than reached the corner of the dark block when, looking behind him, he saw the big outside door of the garage slide back. A moment later a car came out, filled with men.

  Van’s own car was miles away. No use to summon the police now. The murderers would be away before they got here. Van did the one thing he could — ran on till he saw a cruising nighthawk taxi. He leaped in, thrust a bill under the driver’s nose.

  “Back,” he barked, “the way I came. There’s a car I want you to follow.”

  They reached the street where the garage was located just as the last of three cars roared out. It turned away from the direction in which the taxi was headed. And, as they passed the garage, Van saw that these reckless desperate men had fired the place, just as they had the speedboat. A drum of white gas had been opened and a match applied. Flames were seething inside as the taxi whirled by.

  There was only one car visible now, the last one in the rear. Its red tail-light was like some satanic thing beckoning them on. It fled through the almost deserted streets of the night-darkened city, for this was the hour just before dawn when even New York seems dead. The taximan was crouched over his wheel, knowing that something was up, bent on earning the money Van had given him.

  He didn’t see, as Van did, the streaking black shape that came from a side street. Van drew in his breath, and the skin of his scalp felt suddenly tight. For a car without lights, one of those which had fled the garage, nosed out from a spot where it had been lurking.

  Murderers’ strategy! Bowers had known that the man who had impersonated Dopey was some sort of detective. He had anticipated that when they left the garage they would be followed. And the first car out had been told to wait and cover the rear.

  Van reached forward through the taxi’s partitioned window and twisted the wheel just in time. The driver hadn’t seen death coming, so intent was he on that bobbing light ahead. He cried out as Van’s muscular fingers wrenched the wheel from him.

  The taxi swung in toward the curb, away from the hurtling black shape beside it. The blasting stream of machine-gun fire that was meant to rake it from front to rear missed its angle, and instead merely ripped the back tires to ribbons. This and the taximan’s hastily jammed brakes swung the cab squalling around.

  The other car shot by. One bullet from the killers’ machine-gun caught the taximan in the side. He screamed with the sudden pain of it and fell forward across the wheel as the cab reared up on the sidewalk and turned over with a shattering crash.

  CHAPTER VIII

  HELL’S SWITCHBOARD

  DICK VAN LOAN jerked at the handle of the door above him, pushed up quickly, and heaved himself out. He was bruised, shaken, but uninjured.

  He looked around, then caught his breath in a whistling gasp and clawed wildly at the side of the driver’s seat. For the black murder car was backing up! He could hear the high-pitched scream of its gears, see its dark shadow racing at him. A machine-gun began to chatter again, spraying lead savagely, even as he got his hands on the wounded driver. The man was groaning, trembling with fear.

  Van hoisted him bodily, and left the warm stickiness of blood on his hand. He knew that in a moment those killers ahead would return to finish the job. A bullet spattered against the cab as he got the taximan in his arms and raced with him across the sidewalk.

  He clenched his teeth. There was an almost insane fury in the way that machine-gun hammered, waking a thousand spitting echoes along the dark street. Van had stirred up a hornets’ nest of murder. Bowers’s assassins had been instructed to get him, wipe out any possible chance of being identified or followed. The man who had disguised himself as Dopey O’Banion was marked for death.

  BUT Van was thinking more of the wounded driver than of himself as he plunged through a wrought-iron areaway gate into a front court that was slightly lower than the level of the street. He had got the taximan into this scrape and must see him through it. He laid the wounded man prone on the flags of the court, told him to lie flat. Then he whipped out his .38, flung himself down also, and began firing at the approaching car.

  There was a moment, a five-second period, when Death seemed to be de­bating whether or not to end the career of the Phan­tom. The killers’ bul­lets came close, whining and screaming through the areaway fence, glancing off the flags of the court, digging sinister pock­marks onto the build­ing behind Van. A slug burned through his coat sleeve, searing the skin. Another slapped vic­iously across the heel of his left foot.

  But his own aim was calm, deadly. Many times in his strange career the Phantom had been under fire. He wasn’t only a man brilliant in his deductive methods; he was a born fighter. The flash of cordite, the searing heat of bullets seemed to forge a razor edge of alertness to his nerves. The murder ring must not make an innocent victim of the taxi driver, and they must not kill the Phantom, with his work on this strange case barely begun.

  One of his shots made spider-web cracks in the shatter-proof glass of the killers’ car. He swung his gun, flung bullets savagely toward the driver’s compartment The backing car swerved a little, as Van’s lead either struck or unnerved the driver.

  The screaming volley from the machine-gun was deflected. A basement window in the house behind Van broke into ­shattering fragments. Then the black car slowed suddenly, stopped, reversed the direction of its movement, and roared away. Van had beaten off the murderous attack upon him.

  His thoughts turned instantly to the wounded driver. Fear had made the man lie on the flags as still as death. Van pocketed his gun, whipped out a small flashlight. He was glad to see that the driver’s wound was in the right side, far over. He peeled the man’s coat and shirt back. A brief examination convinced him that the wound wasn’t fatal. It was a searing, painful furrow, with a possible fractured rib underneath.

  Lights had sprung up in windows all along the street. Running feet sounded, and a policeman’s visored cap swung into view. Van waited quietly till the officer came up, gun in hand.

  “Stand still there, you two!” the cop ordered. “What’s going on here?”

  Van spoke softly. “The show’s over. It was an attempt at murder that fell through.”

  “Yeah! Well keep your hands where I can see them. Come on out here, fella — make it snappy!”

  The cop was eying Van’s ugly disguised face, the face of Dopey O’Banion, with deep suspicion. Bu
t Van’s hand flashed into his pocket in spite of the warning.

  Then the patrolman stiffened. For in Van’s fingers as he stepped forward, gleamed under the rays of the distant street light, was the badge in the shape of a mask; the badge of platinum incrusted with small, brilliant diamonds.

  The cop looked at it, gulped, glanced at Van’s face again. “I’ve heard of that shield!” he said huskily. “You must be — the Phantom!”

  Van nodded. “Call an ambulance. Get this wounded man to the hospital.”

  “There was shooting,” said the cop. “What was it? I gotta make my report.”

  “Let that pass now. See to this wounded man. I’m going to leave him with you.”

  The cop touched his cap, turned, and ran toward his corner call-box. Plainclothes detectives and bluecoats along the beat had been instructed to take orders from the Phantom. He had aided the department so many times in its fight for law and order that even men on the force who had never seen him had learned to respect him. Van bent over the wounded cabman.

  “Don’t worry, buddy. You’re going to be okay. As for that smashed bus — it’ll be paid for.”

  He waited till the officer came back. Then, with a brief nod, he turned and swung off into the darkness. He couldn’t stop now to give the cop a detailed account of what had happened.

  The trail was still hot. The Phantom had a clue to work on. The killers had escaped but, without knowing it, had left the Phantom with a lead that held real promise.

  The telephone number Bowers had dialed back there in the hideout! The Phantom’s photographic memory had retained it. KLondike 5-9292.It might bring him close to the real brains behind this carnival of murder.

  The Phantom phoned Information and asked for the name of the party under which the phone was listed. He was surprised when the answer came back. The Square Deal Candy and Cigar Store. He came to the conclusion at once that the store must be a mere connecting link in the murderers’ activities. A relay spot perhaps. He got the address, hopped in another cab, and sped to it.

  In the darkness of the cab’s interior he made quick changes in his make-up. He removed the black wax from his teeth, the nostril spreaders, the feverish tint that he had used for Dopey O’Banion’s drug-induced flush. He might run into the murder gang again and didn’t want to be recognized.

  When he paid his fare two blocks from his destination, the cabman stared at him in startled wonder. One man had entered the cab and another seemingly was leaving it. Van walked away with the driver staring after him, frowning.

  HE glanced at the street numbers, crossed to the side opposite from those for which he was looking, and strolled by the Square Deal Candy and Cigar Store. It was a small, run-down shop with a single grimy window and a door at the left. A clutter of candy jars and cigar boxes was visible. There was a dim light burning somewhere in the rear. Van crossed over again, walked by the store, closer this time, and saw that the light was coming through an open transom.

  There was no one in sight anywhere along the street. Van stepped into the store’s vestibule, cautiously tried several skeleton keys he carried, and found one that fit. He got the door open and entered silently, the fingers of his right hand clamped around the butt of his .38. The smell of tobacco and candy flavors stung his nostrils.

  He closed the door, moved stealthily toward the rear. There was no phone anywhere in sight. He searched carefully, behind boxes, under counters, along the walls.

  Then he went to that door, above which the light was coming, and put his ear to it. It seemed to him that he heard a faint sound of breathing. He tried the door, found it locked, too, and used another of his pass-keys.

  He stepped into a small rear hall with a low-power frosted bulb burning overhead. It was that which had made the glow in the transom. The Phantom glanced at it, glanced away. There was another door beside him, curtained with heavy, dirty drapes of soiled velvet, and from behind them came clearly now the sound of breathing.

  The draperies gaped open just far enough for Van to see that there was no light beyond. It was a bedroom apparently, behind the shop, and it was occupied now by at least one sleeper.

  Van took out his flashlight. That breathing seemed to indicate deep slumber. He risked opening the draperies wider and angling his body through, He stood still for a moment, saw nothing, but waited till he was sure the breathing was still steady. Then he cupped his hand over the lens of his flash so that only a thin ribbon would show, and turned it on cautiously.

  It was a sleeping chamber. There was a big white enameled bed at the side of the room. On this was a man’s body, with a huge, bloated, piglike head on one end, half buried in dirty pillows. The man was of enormous size, with unshaven cheeks and a mop of greasy black hair. His mouth was slack. His broken teeth showed, and he was breathing noisily. The light of Van’s cautious flash didn’t wake him.

  There was no one else in the room but, close by, on a small wall shelf, was a phone, As Van stood there eying it the bell commenced ringing violently.

  Coming so suddenly in the stillness of the night, with Van’s nerves taut, the sound seemed to blast against his eardrums. As the phone bell sounded, the huge sleeper stirred.

  Van’s hand was in his pocket, holding his gun. He expected a man of such ponderous proportions to wake up slowly, roll over perhaps, and yawn. He thought he had time to slip back out of sight behind the draperies.

  But instead of waking slowly the big man appeared to snap into life like an uncoiling spring.

  VAN had never seen a man awaken so fast. With one motion the man’s eyes opened, caught Van’s silhouette against the half-open draperies, flung the covers off, and twisted himself from the bed. His reaction was automatic.

  He was up and lunging at Van with his huge hands clawing like a frenzied grizzly. The Phantom for once was taken by surprise.

  He couldn’t get his gun out. The man’s vast weight struck him, pinioned his right hand in his pocket, toppled him backwards. Van fell with the unshaven human giant almost on top of him.

  “Thief! Murderer!” the big man snarled.

  His stubby fingers were reaching to throttle Van, squeeze the breath from him. But Van had recovered from the first instant of paralyzed surprise. He twisted from under the weight of the huge body. The draperies came down as the giant pulled at them, tangling Van, who fell again, and light from the hall outside poured through the door.

  Van got his right hand free, lashed out with his fist as the man came at him. His knuckles struck that ugly, piglike face. But the blow only dazed the stranger and didn’t stop him. He cursed, arms pistoning, opening and shutting his big mouth. Van untangled his feet and rose as the giant struck down at him.

  He met the man’s next attack just in front of the bed. They got close and fought standing face to face for a moment as the telephone continued to sound. It was the incessant clamor of that bell that made Van’s heart beat faster, made him want to end this battle quickly. This great, stupid hulk of a man was obviously only a minor cog in the black murder machine that Van was investigating. But that phone ringing in the dead of night might hold an answer to the riddle.

  Van got his left hand free. Reaching up and back, he tried a paralyzing jab at the base of the big man’s skull, a jiu-jitsu blow that was calculated to knock most men cold. But the giant was so padded with fat that the blow missed fire.

  The big man swore again, swayed on his feet, but struck chopping, frenzied blows. This was no time for niceties. There was murder in the offing. Van let drive straight at that sagging, flabby paunch of a belly. The man grunted, staggered back. Van followed it up with a savage swing at the big man’s jaw. Even at that the giant could take such punishment that he mightn’t have fallen if he hadn’t tripped on the woven rag rug. He stumbled backwards, beat the air desperately, and fell against the foot of the white enameled bed. There was a thud as his skull struck metal. His big body sagged to the floor. The room was suddenly still — except for the persistent jangling of the phone
.

  Van crossed to it catlike, lifted the receiver.

  “Hog-face, you damned lazy fool!” a voice almost shouted at him. “Can’t you wake up! I’ve been calling for the last five minutes. Quick, you big dough-belly, connect me with Blackie.”

  His heart hammering, Van recognized the voice of the gang leader, Bowers. He grunted thickly, deep in his throat, like a sleepy, stupid man, while his eyes roved around the edge of the phone box. Bowers had said “connect me with Blackie.”

  And then Van saw the short, black, metal-pointed cord hanging below the phone box, with a plug-in place in the wall. It was an extension. Here was the function of the hog-faced giant. The candy store served as a front for a switchboard. Hog-face was its operator.

  Van plugged the metal points in, still holding the receiver to his ear, and heard a signal bell sound in the distant extension. Then there was a click as another receiver was lifted. A different voice came, a strange one to the Phantom.

  “What’s eatin’ you, Bowers? I said I’d come, didn’t I?”

  BOWERS, so hoarse he was almost incoherent, spoke again. “That’s what I wanta tell yer! Don’t go to the shack, Blackie! I’m not there now — I’m callin’ from a pay station. All hell’s broke loose. A guy made up like Dopey came back with the boys. I don’t know where Dopey is, but this guy wasn’t him. We tried to smoke him, but he got away. We knew he’d bring cops, so we blew and set fire to the dump.”

  Blackie swore so fiercely that the phone diaphragm rattled. “You thick-headed heel! You let this man get away — after I warned you about the Phantom! The Chief will have something to say about this, Bowers. He’ll probably can you.”

  “How’d I know this guy who looked like Dopey was the Phantom?”