The Phantom Detective - The Dancing Doll Murders

by Robert Wallace

  “I don’t know the circumstances, of course,” Doc said softly, “but you say the Chief came to see you right here in this room, A simple way out of our difficulty occurs to me. Why not let the boys in when he comes the next time and fill him full of lead?”

  “It wouldn’t work,” snapped Blackie. “I ain’t sayin’ why. There are some things that are none of your damned business. But the Chief let onto one thing on his first visit, he wears a bullet-proof vest that would just about stop shrapnel. He figured right off that I might try to doublecross him.”

  Doc grinned again, that mirthless, satanic grin. “From what you say, Blackie, the gentleman has anticipated everything. I admit I’m over my depth; but I’m glad to take orders.”

  “Get rid of those hopheads, then,” said Blackie sullenly. “I’ll send some of the boys out to find out what the cops have done with Blackwell. After I know just where he is I’ll figure out how to get him.”

  Guido turned toward the locked door of the billiard room. Van left his hiding place behind the partition and stole quickly through the darkness of the chamber he was in. He reached the furnace room door, went out, and shut it carefully behind him. He spent about five minutes brushing the ground, obliterating tracks. Then he moved like a shadow across the lawn to the high brick wall. He drew himself up, oozed deftly over the signal wire, dropped to the street.

  He had heard enough tonight to make his pulses drum with excitement. He had come close, tantalizingly close to the truth. He had actually seen the Chief, learned how Blackie Guido made contact with the ruthless, unknown killer. And yet the question mark in front of that sinister, helmeted figure was even larger now. Who was he?

  Van was uncertain. A half dozen theories were beating through his mind. Inspector Farragut thought that Judd Moxley, up in prison, was the one. Blackie Guido had hit upon the startling idea that Reggie Winstead was the Chief. Far­ragut’s theory would be proved or disproved shortly. It might take time to get to the bottom of Blackie Guido’s.

  Van had known desperate, scheming criminals to hide behind innocent appearing exteriors before. It wasn’t outside the realm of possibility that Reggie Winstead was the guilty man. Then there was Eben Gray, the other Caulder nephew, tall, sardonic, almost as saturnine in appearance as the criminal, Doc. He had seemed the least frightened, the least disturbed of any. Farragut’s men were giving him protection. But they weren’t watching him all the time. He had been free to come and go.

  The riddle grew deeper as Van thought about it, as strangely mystifying as any case he had ever been on. But right now there was something concrete to handle, something he must do. Death’s bony fingers were reaching for the recluse, Simon Blackwell. Van had saved the man’s life once. He must save it again.

  CHAPTER XIV

  DANGEROUS DISGUISE

  RICHARD VAN LOAN waited outside the old house long enough to see Blackie Guido emerge, and to trail him back to the heart of the city.

  He didn’t want to lose sight of this key man in the sinister crime mystery, Guido might become useful before the case was finished. Already the Phantom had evolved a desperate plan he would put into action if all else failed.

  He found that Guido, after being driven from his luxurious studio apartment, had taken a furnished room about six blocks from the Hotel Chatterly where Dolly DeLong lived.

  Van got the number. Then he hurried to a telephone booth in Grand Central Terminal. This seemed as close as any. It was so late that even the drug stores were closed. And the lateness made Van realize suddenly how much he needed sleep. Even an hour of it would refresh him, for he had learned to relax when he wanted to, throw off worries, and sleep deeply as Orientals do. A short period of rest would recharge his energy.

  But, before giving himself over to the luxury of it, Van put through a call to Police Headquarters. He wanted to hear what had happened up at the State pen. Could Moxley be guilty? Or had he remained in his cell? Van knew that Inspector Farragut, desperately anxious to break the case, had planned an all-night vigil in his office so he would be in constant contact with all that went on.

  IN a moment Van heard the familiar voice of the Homicide Squad head. “Hello! Who is it?” Farragut sounded tense, nervous.

  “The Phantom speaking.”

  Before Van had a chance to ask any questions the inspector began giving information. “Nothing doing up at the prison! Moxley’s been snoring since nine o’clock. My man’s watching right in the next cell. Another one got the dope from him ten minutes ago and called me. That was a bum steer, a blind alley. I was all wet, I guess. And that isn’t the whole of it. Blackwell gave us the shake this evening!‘ The inspector’s voice was harsh.

  “What?”

  “Yeah. We don’t know where he is. We argued with him, got him to promise not to go back to his shack on Channel Point on account of the danger of it, and had him put up in a rooming house run by the sister of one of my boys here at Headquarters. About ten o’clock Blackwell claimed he felt sick. The man I had watching to see that he didn’t get bumped off went to phone a doctor. He was only gone three minutes. But when he came back Blackwell had flown the coop.”

  “Maybe he returned to his own house in spite of your warning?”

  “No, I’ve had men watching there ever since ten,” said the inspector wearily. “Lord knows where the old boy’s gone to. He’s half nutty anyway.”

  “That’s tough,” Van muttered. “Tough as hell, Inspector. The murder gang’s out after Blackwell now. They’re not likely to fail a second time. And if you don’t know where he is you can’t protect him.”

  “That’s right — but maybe they can’t find him either,” the inspector said hopefully.

  “I wouldn’t trust to it.”

  Van paused a moment, then gave an account of his own investigations, leaving out only a few details, such as the addresses of Blackie Guido, Dolly DeLong, and the mystery house. He told how he’d made contact with the Chief and heard the orders he’d given Guido.

  Farragut grew tense with excitement when Van came to Guido’s theory about Reggie Winstead.

  “There may be something in it! I’ll detail a dozen men to watch that guy.”

  “Go easy,” said Van warningly. “We know now that Moxley isn’t the Chief. That lead was sour. Whoever else we pin this on it won’t be Moxley. And you don’t want to waste a lot of time and good brain energy on another bum steer. My advice is to concentrate on finding Blackwell.”

  “Hey, wait a minute, Phantom. You’re not insinuating that Blackwell is —”

  “I’m not insinuating anything,” Van snapped. “I’m just advising you to find Blackwell if you can before those killers get to him.”

  “We can put a stop to the whole thing by going out with a squad of men to that house you just told me about and tearing it wide open. Hew about giving me the address, Phantom? We’ll trap every one of those devils.” The inspector was eager for action, eager to make some arrests that would prove to the public he was on his toes.

  “Not on your life, Inspector,” Van said. “You might trap some of the gang, but what about the Chief? You wouldn’t get him, and you wouldn’t put a stop to the murders. He could hire another bunch of killers. If we raid that place it’s got to be done at just the right moment. It’s got to be timed. It’s the only big lead we’ve got. We can’t afford to spoil it.”

  “Then what do you advise, Phantom?”

  “Some sleep, Inspector, for both of us! Give your men orders to comb the city for Blackwell, then call it a day. Unless something else breaks in the meantime you’ll need all your energy for the party tomorrow night.”

  Without explaining what he meant, Van hung up.

  The next afternoon something else did break. But it only added a darker tinge to the mystery. Reggie Winstead, the man suspected by Guido of being the Chief, now being watched closely by Farragut’s detectives, lost his nerve completely and swallowed a bottle of poison. His pulse was almost nonexistent, and there was a whit
e froth on his lips when some of Farragut’s men found him. It was obviously a suicide attempt, not murder, for the poison bottle lay right at his side.

  A stomach pump brought him back to consciousness.

  “Couldn’t stand — the suspense,” Winstead mumbled. “Dancing dolls! They’d get me — anyway!”

  He was rushed off in an ambulance and put on the danger list in Bellevue.

  Van called Farragut when he heard about it. The inspector was swearing mad and discouraged.

  “That’s the last straw, Phantom! I’m stumped! I don’t know where I’m at! And, what’s more, my men haven’t been able to find Blackwell. No trace of him.”

  “Then you’ve got two suspects,” said Van grimly.

  “Two suspects — what the hell do you mean?”

  “Blackwell and Winstead! I’m not saying they’re guilty. I’m only saying they’re first-class suspects. Blackwell was not under police surveillance last night when I saw the Chief. Neither was Winstead. Now Blackwell’s gone, skipped. And though Winstead took poison, he didn’t die. Wouldn’t a suicide attempt be a swell way for a murderer to cover up?”

  “Damn!” said Farragut.

  “And don’t forget Eben Gray! There’s a man worth watching!”

  “Damn!” said Farragut again.

  “We won’t know whether Winstead’s guilty or not until tonight — unless he dies first. After tonight I hope we’ll be certain. If it’s okay with you, Inspector, we’re going to raid that house I spoke of. We’re going to make a man-sized attempt to trap the Chief!”

  “Now you’re talking!” shouted Farragut. “How many men do you want? Where is it?”

  THERE are a few things I’ve got to do first,” said Van “It’s not going to be any cinch. It may miss fire. But with Blackwell still unaccounted for, tonight may be our last and only chance. I’ll call back around ten o’clock, Inspector, and give you all the dope.”

  Van hung up. His face was grimly set. He remembered that the Chief had threatened to ditch Guido and the whole murder gang unless they found and killed Blackwell before his return tonight. So far nothing had been heard of Blackwell dead or alive.

  Two hours after Van’s talk with Inspector Farragut a yellow taxi swerved to the curb along the block where Blackie Guido had taken quarters in a rooming house. The taxi rolled to a stop five doors away from Guido’s new abode, and on the same side of the street. There were no passengers in it. The driver, nondescript, lanky, tough-looking, lounged behind the wheel. He amused himself with a tabloid paper and a package of cigarettes. He kept the meter running.

  When people walked up from time to time to engage him, he shook his head, growled: “Nothin’ doin’! Got a fare.”

  DUSK was falling rapidly. As it deepened the cabman’s eyes grew watchful over his paper. He could just make out the windows of the room Guido had taken, two stories above the street. A light suddenly sprang up behind the shades. The cabman waited patiently an hour longer until the light finally went out.

  Then he shut off his meter, threw in his clutch, and kept his foot ready on the pedal. His shoulders bent forward over the wheel.

  The door of the rooming house opened; and a man dressed in a Chesterfield, derby, spats, and gloves, came down the brownstone steps. It was Blackie Guido, his swarthy face washed out with worry, his eyes bloodshot from lack of sleep. He was slapping his gloves nervously against his leg. Inner emotion, fear, uncertainty, made his usually handsome face look ugly.

  The taxi nosed forward as Guido walked up the street. “Cab, sir? Cab?”

  Guido saw it, gestured mechanically with his pigskin gloves. He stepped through the door that the taximan pushed open.

  “Hotel Chatterly,” he spat. “Step on it!”

  “What’s that again, Mac?” The taximan twisted his head back interrogatively as though to make sure of his orders. His tough-looking face was innocently blank.

  Guido brought his own sinister, bloodshot eyes close to the open window in the glass partition that separated him from the driver Nervous fury writhed in his pale lips.

  “Are you deaf?” he yelled. “I said Hotel Chatterly, damn you!”

  Crack!

  Guido never saw the small leather blackjack that struck him. The driver swung it so quickly, so dexterously, in a back-handed flip, that it was like a stage magician’s trick. It hit Guido’s temple. There was artistry, calculation in the blow. Guido slumped and lay like a fallen grain sack in the bottom of the cab.

  The cab shot forward with its silent, inert passenger that no one looking in from the outside would be apt to see. But the taximan turned into an avenue with few traffic lights, then cut at an angle across the city, choosing the lesser used streets.

  The coup had worked out too well for the Phantom to want to take any chances now. Behind his taximan’s disguise his eyes were gleaming. Making a prisoner of Blackie Guido was only the first step in the daring action he planned. The cab was his own, one that he kept always ready in a secret garage.

  He drove it now to another garage in the rear of Dr. Paul Bendix’s laboratory. He climbed out, closed the garage doors carefully. Blackie Guido as yet hadn’t even begun to stir. But his pulse was strong and steady. The Phantom’s expert blow had only stunned him. Van lifted him easily, carried him through a short walled passage and into the laboratory itself.

  Here, in a small, thick-walled anteroom, was a metal chair bolted to the floor. Van had installed it in case the need arose to interview and subdue unruly captives. He dropped Guido in it, clipped handcuffs over his slack wrists and through rings in the chair, fastened his ankles to the rungs. Then he poured some carbonate of ammonia on a piece of cotton and held it under Guido’s nostrils.

  Guido began to twitch at the end of two minutes. His sagging mouth closed, his eyelids opened. He sat up suddenly, glaring at the Phantom with all the ferocity of a wild animal in a trap.

  “All right, Guido,” said Van softly. “There are a few things I want to ask you while you’re my guest.”

  “Go to Hell!” said Guido. Veins in his forehead stood out. His teeth showed in a tigerish snarl. “I’ll get you for this!”

  “You’ll never have a chance. The electric chair’s waiting for you. Do you know who I am?”

  For seconds their eyes clashed, Van’s calm ones looking into Guido’s black pupils with a steady, menacing stare. For all his rough disguise as a taximan, Van’s face seemed to acquire dignity and an almost uncanny power. The mottled, angry flush began to fade from Guido’s cheeks. Fear and pallor took its place. He licked his lips, and his voice came huskily.

  “I guess you’re — the Phantom!”

  “Right! And you’re finished, Guido — done! I know just what you’ve been up to. I’ve got a closed case against you. You’ve had a hand in three killings in the last two days. Any one of them would send you to the death house.” Blackie’s face went pallid.

  Van let that sink in. Then he added: “What I want from you now is a little information.”

  Hope gleamed in Guido’s eyes at that. “Yeah? S’posin’ I won’t give it?”

  “That’s up to you. I’m going to hand you over to the police anyway, and they’ll send you up the river. Your only chance is to turn State’s evidence. I’m not premising anything for a rat like you. But if you squeal, tell everything you know, you might get off with a life sentence.”

  Guido began to perspire. There was an air of cold finality in the way the Phantom spoke. Van went on and told in a casual voice about the old house with the swimming pool in it, and how the Chief appeared. Guido broke at that.

  “Hell, what’s the use, Phantom! You’ve got the dope anyway. Don’t let ‘em send me to the chair, and I’ll turn State’s evidence like you say. The rats I got workin’ for me let me down, anyway.”

  Van began firing questions, and in five minutes he got the information he wanted — the signals Guido used on the electric button behind the molding to let the Chief know all was clear, and the fact that
the murder gang had not been able to find Simon Blackwell.

  VAN listened as Guido spoke, not only to his words, but to the inflections of his voice. And his eyes were hawklike as he watched Guido’s every expression.

  In a moment he held up his hand. “Okay, Guido! That’s enough for now. The rest you can tell in court. I’m going to leave you here for a while — and first I’m going to give you a cocktail.”

  Guido’s eyes followed Van with sudden suspicion as Van went to a small cabinet and poured a brownish liquid from a bottle into a glass. Guido spoke hoarsely as Van came toward him.

  “You — you ain’t gonna poison me, Phantom?”

  “Not poison you, no. There’s just enough laudanum mixed with this brandy to put you to sleep for the next twelve hours. It’s healthier than the arsenic compounds you ordered Doc to feed those hopheads.” When Guido hesitated to swallow the drink which Van placed against his lips, Van said softly: “I can use the blackjack again if you prefer.”

  Guido gulped the brown liquor with sweat streaming from his face.

  Van left the room. When he returned in ten minutes Guido was sleeping like a baby.

  Van had already removed his taximan’s makeup and laid the foundation for another. And now, with a strong mercury-vapor light turned on Guido’s face, Van commenced an impersonation which took all his skill. There must be no slip-up this time, no fatal flaw that would give him away, as there had been when he made up as Dopey O’Banion. Too much depended on success. What he was going to do tonight might save human lives, prevent other murders.

  He worked slowly, painstakingly — and in twenty-five minutes Blackie Guido’s exact double was standing in that room.

  CHAPTER XV

  DEPTHS OF DOOM

  UNDER cover of the darkness a score of New York’s finest detectives moved stealthily. Singly and in pairs they converged on that house of mystery behind the high brick wall. They were armed to the teeth. Blackjacks, tear gas, riot guns, automatics.