The Phantom knew many ways of forcing criminals to talk, and he had found there were times when silence was a more potent factor than words. He did not speak, but just stood there watching and waiting.
Beyond the range of the electric light that gleamed into the bin the cellar was dark and shadowy. In the stillness Len moved one foot and seemed startled by the slight sound it made.
“If you are going to shoot, do it and get it over with,” he said. “Don’t just stand there looking at me like that. I can’t stand it.”
“Why was Dr. Winterly murdered?” the Phantom asked.
“I – I wasn’t told. They never told me anything!”
“Then I shall. Winterly was a front for this con game. As an eminent scientist, his name was a clincher. How could a deal be crooked if he was connected with it? Only there was a hitch. Dr. Winterly’s mind had cracked. He was deluded into thinking he had invented something stupendous. But things were closing in, and Dr. Winterly was dangerous because he knew who was behind the scheme. So he had to die.”
“I didn’t kill him,” Len cried. “Bernie did. Bernie said Winterly had to die before you reached him.”
“And how did Bernie know I was headed this way, to talk to Dr. Winterly?”
“Bernie got a phone call, and we started here as fast as we could. Bernie fed the dumb lug upstairs some doped booze. He was meant to take the rap.” The fright and the pleading were still in Len’s voice. “You got to believe me. I’m just a small guy.”
From upstairs there came a faint sound. The Phantom frowned as he heard it. “On your feet,” he snapped, and then as Len scrambled up. “Keep those arms raised. We’re going upstairs. Luke just moaned. He’ll be coming out of it.”
“Don’t let him at me,” Len begged. “That fellow is dangerous. He’s a sap, but he’s strong as a bull, and he’ll be sore at me.”
“That’s not unlikely,” the Phantom grunted. “Move along. I’m not in love with you myself.”
Upstairs, Luke was sitting on the edge of the couch, holding his big head in his hands while he tried to figure out what had happened. The tent-shaped eyes under the heavy brows looked blank and bleary, the flat nose looked like someone had casually stuck it on his broad, dumb face. The shapeless lips were no longer twisted in their usual leer, but hung slack and trembling.
The Phantom motioned Len to stand near the big man so that he could cover both of them with the gun.
“Snap out of it, Luke,” the Phantom said.
Luke raised his head and gazed blankly at the man who stood in front of him. “Who – who’re you?” he asked in a thick voice. “Who – wait, I know. You’re that cop. I hate cops.”
“Luke, listen to me. I’m the Phantom Detective. Dr. Winterly was murdered -”
“Murdered?” interrupted Luke. “But that couldn’t happen. I wouldn’t let anybody get near the Doc. Not me.”
“You couldn’t stop them,” the Phantom said. “You were knocked out with doped booze. This man with his arms in the air was one of the two who killed Doctor Winterly.”
“I don’t believe it. You’re just talking wild. The Doc is all right. I’ll go see.”
Luke got to his feet, staggered toward the next room. For a moment he stood in the doorway staring at the body, and then he uttered a weird sob. Finally he turned slowly, half crouched, mighty arms outspread, his huge hands opening and closing. He shuffled forward, his drug-dazed eyes on Len Barker.
“One of the two who killed him,” Luke mumbled. “One of the two.”
Len Barker shuddered, but he was too frightened now even to speak. He just stood there staring at the big man.
“Sit down, Luke!” The Phantom’s voice was sharp and commanding in the grim silence. “Do you hear me? Sit down, or I’ll shoot a leg from under you.”
Luke turned his head and stared at the Phantom as though he had forgotten he was there. “Why must I sit down?” he asked. “Why?”
“Because this man is going to get what he deserves, but killing him won’t solve anything,” the Phantom explained slowly and patiently. “He has talked. What he knows will send the right man to the electric chair. This thug must live. If he dies, we have no case.”
“No case, huh?” Luke’s wits, never too bright, were extremely dull now. “I kill him, no case. Okay, so he lives. But tell me who drove the Doc half crazy and let me kill him. He’s the bird I want.”
“Doctor Winterly was an old, old man,” the Phantom said. “Nobody drove him crazy. He had gone senile. That’s why you were hired – to protect him. People were always trying to get him to promote something, bringing their problems to him. You were supposed to see that he wasn’t bothered. Only you slipped, Luke. Somebody got at Doctor Winterly.”
Luke’s senses were fairly normal now. “Yeah,” he said, “Doc thought he’d just invented the greatest thing of his career. Something about steel. He used to sound off about it and fuss around with a lot of chemicals.”
“He took money, too,” the Phantom said. “But Winterly wasn’t responsible for his part in this. Someone used him, Luke. Then, when he was no longer useful and became, in fact, a dangerous man, he was murdered and things arranged so it would seem that you had killed him.”
“Me?” Luke shouted. “You’re crazy. How could anybody think I did it?”
“Doctor Winterly was stabbed to death,” said the Phantom. “Look at the blood on your hand and on that knife you always carry. You’ll find the knife down in the cellar. Len here tried to kill me with it and frame you with that murder, too.”
“Oh, yeah,” Luke glared at Barker. “I’m sure now I don’t like this bird at all. Couldn’t you get him to sign a confession or somethin’ and then let me kill him?”
“No!” protested Len. “I won’t do it. I won’t sign anything. Not now.” He glared at the big man. “Don’t let him come near me.”
“They might have believed I did kill the Doc,” said Luke. “But I wouldn’t have done it – ever. Listen, the old boy may have been soft in the brain, but I’d have give my life to save his. He treated me swell. I’m nobody, but he didn’t care about that. He liked me.”
“Yes, I guessed that,” the Phantom said.
“Luke, find some rope, and tie up our prisoner. You and I are taking him back to the city where he’ll be locked up. Then I’m going after the man who used Doctor Winterly as a show case for a gigantic swindle.”
“I could wring his neck a little,” Luke suggested hopefully, gazing at Len Barker. “That’d be as good as tying him. Maybe better.”
“No, we want him to stay healthy, Luke. Healthy, but helpless, so get the rope.”
The big man nodded and left the room in search of a rope.
“I’ll make a deal,” Len said. “I’ll give you Bernie Pennell in return for a break.”
“I don’t dicker,” the Phantom said. “Not with a man who just did his best to kill me and who even stoops to beating up women. You forgot that, didn’t you? And you lied when you said you didn’t know the man behind Pennell. Because that man entered Arthur Arden’s apartment while you were laying your dirty hands on Vicki Selden. You knew he was coming, and you planned to make certain Vicki wouldn’t see this man.”
“You can’t prove any of that stuff,” Len was suddenly defiant. “So I’m not talking.”
His aggressive attitude vanished as Luke stepped back into the room carrying a coil of rope.
“It is too late to try and bluff me now, Len,” the Phantom said. “You’re in so deep that you’re bound to share the same fate as Pennell and the other man.”
Len winced as Luke used the rope to pinion both of the crook’s arms tight to his sides.
“I didn’t kill anybody,” Len said. “I wasn’t going to kill that girl.”
“I think she’d contradict you,” the Phantom said grimly. “And I’d back up her story.” He turned to the big man. “Luke – we’ll go to the neighboring house where there is a phone. Mainly because I’m afraid they in
jured or killed the man who lives there.”
“I only knocked him out,” Len declared.
“Let’s go,” the Phantom said tartly.
THEY found the neighbor frantically phoning the sheriff, and the Phantom permitted him to finish the call. When Sheriff McCabe arrived the Phantom gave him the details and turned Len Barker over to him instead of taking the thug to New York as he had originally planned. Luke went back to Dr. Winterly’s place to stand guard until McCabe summoned more help.
The Phantom drove back to New York alone. On the way, he studied the events from all angles and carefully planned a trap. It was conditioned upon what he’d find in New York, but the Phantom almost guessed what Steve Huston would tell him.
Upon reaching the city the Phantom returned to his Park Avenue apartment to freshen his disguise and to obtain new clothes to take the place of those ruined by the lake water.
He met Steve by arranging an appointment through Frank Havens, for Huston, as usual, remained in close contact with the publisher. They met on a street corner, just two men who apparently did not know each other casually waiting for a bus.
Steve spoke in a low voice, with never a glance at the Phantom.
“Vicki was gone when I reached her apartment,” Steve said. “Traced her through the cab she used, and went to Club Elite where the taxi driver had taken her. She was still there, with Park Sunderland, the follow who owns that model agency. They were cooing like a couple of turtle doves.”
“Did Sunderland receive or make any phone calls while you had him under observation?”
“He didn’t get any, but he made several. Lots of people stopped at his table to chat.”
“I’ll take over from here,” the Phantom said. “Reach Chip Dorlan, and both of you begin canvassing hotels for a man named Douglas Hoag, a Texas oil man worth plenty. The moment you find him let Mr. Havens know. Then stand by to wind this up.”
“That I’m going to like,” said Steve in a grim voice.
The Phantom knew where the Club Elite was situated. As Richard Curtis Van Loan he’d been there several times. The doorman showed no sign of recognition, since the man who entered the club looked nothing like Van Loan, but when the Phantom stepped into the dining room, he saw Vicki Selden give a start of surprise as she saw him.
She bent toward her companion and whispered. Park Sunderland turned his handsome face toward the advancing Phantom, then arose and offered his hand. He insisted that the Phantom take an empty chair at the table.
“But I don’t understand,” Sunderland said when the two men were seated.
“Vicki says you are the Phantom, and the last time I saw you, I believed you to be a regular city detective.”
“And I,” the Phantom countered, “believed that you and Miss Selden didn’t know one another.”
“We didn’t,” Sunderland admitted. “Hugh Royal, an artist, brought us together. He did some oil magazine covers with Vicki as a model, and thought I might be able to use her also.” Sunderland smiled at the girl. “I’m certain I can. We have just been talking over the terms of a contract.
“Tell me what you know about Hugh Royal,” the Phantom urged.
A look of surprise passed over Sunderland’s face. “Great heavens,” he exclaimed. “You don’t think he’s mixed up in this dirty business? Hugh isn’t wealthy, and hasn’t been what you’d term successful until lately, but he’s honest. At least I’ve never heard of him being dishonest.”
“How well did Hugh Royal know Arthur Arden?” the Phantom addressed his question to Vicki.
“Why – I don’t think they ever met.” Vicki frowned thoughtfully and touched her blonde hair with one slender hand. “I’m almost sure of it.”
“Did you tell Mr. Sunderland all the details, as to how you are involved?” the Phantom asked.
“Yes.” Vicki nodded. “I thought it only fair. There might be a great deal of publicity about this, before it’s finished with. I didn’t want to sign a contract and discover later that Mr. Sunderland wouldn’t be able to use me after all.”
“She’s not directly involved,” Sunderland said quickly. “Not with the criminals. In fact, she seems to have been working against them to such an extent that they actually tried to kill her.” He smiled. “Publicity of that kind will create sympathy for Vicki and make her more valuable than ever.”
The Phantom rose. “Then I’ll leave you two. At the moment, I’m rather stopped in my tracks. A man I wanted badly got away from me, though the one who attacked you, Vicki, is now a prisoner. I’m going to have you face him first thing in the morning. Maybe that will break him – make him talk.”
Vicki shuddered. “I’ll do anything you say, Phantom. I’ll be glad to testify against that man. He really meant to murder me.”
“Good,” the Phantom told her. “Stick to that story, and he’ll know what amounts to a life sentence will face him. Tomorrow we may settle this whole thing. Good night – and thanks to both of you.”
CHAPTER XX
SPACE BENEATH
CLOCKS nearby showed about twenty minutes had elapsed since the Phantom had left the Club Elite. Yet now he was standing in front of a locked door on the fifteenth floor of the Avedon Building on lower Park Avenue. The corridor was deserted, and there was no light gleaming through the glass paneling of the door in front of him, but the lettering on the door was clearly visible. It read, “The Park Sunderland Model Agency.”
Swiftly and silently the Phantom drew a small, flat bit of steel from his pocket. A few moments of quick, deft work and the entrance door of the agency swung open to his touch. Like a flitting shadow he stepped inside, closing and locking the door noiselessly behind him.
In the darkness of the small reception office the scent of feminine perfumes hung heavy in the air. The Phantom drew his pocket flash and switched it on. The round beam of bright light circled around slowly, seeming to linger on the delicately tinted mauve walls, on the color photographs of languorous young ladies that hung there.
For an instant, the light lingered on the deserted receptionist desk, and the orange glass of the desk reflected back the white glow. Then the Phantom switched off the flash. He had assured himself there was no one in this part of the office at least, and there was danger of the light being spotted by someone passing in the corridor.
He turned and looked toward the door. The light from the corridor gleamed faintly through the glass, and he watched for a moving shadow that might indicate someone was lurking out there. The impression that he had been trailed when he had left the night club and driven here to this building in his car was strong within him.
For a full minute he stood there watching the door, but there was no sign of anyone outside. Apparently the corridor was still deserted. Satisfied, the Phantom stepped to the door of Park Sunderland’s private office. It was closed; and when he opened it, he found the office dark as was the rest of the agency. Again he brought the flash into use. The private office was deserted – no sign of anyone there. From the neatness of the place it was evident that the cleaning woman had come and gone.
The Phantom breathed a sigh of relief. If she had blundered in to straighten up the place and found him there his presence would have been difficult to explain. She probably would have thought he was a burglar and screamed for help. That would mean explanations and delays. The Phantom did not want that, for he knew he had to work fast tonight.
In the adjoining office, which evidently belonged to Sunderland’s private secretary, the Phantom found what he was seeking. It was a filing system. He quickly picked the lock on this, decided he could risk turning on the lights in the inner office, and went quickly to work. With pencil and notebook he took down names – dozens of them, along with addresses and phone numbers.
Even though he worked swiftly it took time. He was just about finished when he heard a key click in the lock of the door of the reception office. He thrust the pencil and notebook into his pocket. He leaped to the wall switch, intending to tu
rn out the lights, and then hesitated, his finger on the button. The click of the light switch might be heard by whoever was entering.
He heard the door of the reception office open and close, and waited.
“Anyone here?” a masculine voice called. “Who is it?”
The Phantom did not answer. He stood motionless at the side of the open door where he could not be easily seen by any one glancing into the private secretary’s office. He heard footsteps. Someone was coming toward the office. The Phantom waited, gun in hand.
“I know there’s somebody around here,” the approaching man said. “If there wasn’t, those lights wouldn’t be on in there.”
The Phantom frowned as he recognized the voice. It was Bernie Pennell who spoke. Evidently he had spent some time since he returned to town establishing alibis for himself and Len Barker to cover them for the murder of Dr. Winterly and also the killing of the Phantom. Provided of course, that Pennell had not learned in some way that the man with the twisted ear had failed and the Phantom was still alive. But what was Pennell doing here?
Pennell stepped into the office, dressed just as he had been the last time the Phantom had seen him, the snappy gray hat on his head.
“You’re right, Pennell,” the Phantom said, thrusting the barrel of his gun against the swarthy man’s back. “There is somebody here.”
“The Phantom!” Pennell gasped, as he looked back over his shoulder and saw the face of the man behind him. “But I thought you were dead – that Len had killed you and left you at Winterly’s!”
“That was what you told him to do before you left,” said the Phantom. “But Len is in jail, and I’m still very much alive.” His voice hardened. “Turn around!”
Pennell turned, slowly and deliberately. Now that he had recovered from the first shock of finding the man he thought dead alive, there was no fear in his attitude. The Phantom realized that Bernie Pennell was far more dangerous than Len Barker had been. This suave, dark man was no cringing coward when the odds were against him.
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