The Phantom stepped forward, his automatic leveled, his voice smooth and brittle: “Drop that gun!”
The man in the doorway didn’t argue. He stepped back into the office, and the blue-steel revolver in his hand clattered to the floor.
The Phantom kicked it aside and, with gun leveled, entered the room.
CHAPTER IX
ONE TO NOTHING
QUICKLY, the Phantom saw that the man who retreated before the threat of his automatic was a sandy haired, narrow-shouldered character in a plain brown suit, with a pair of eyes as cold and penetrating as his voice. They peered at the Phantom speculatively, hostilely, as the detective nudged the door shut and let his gun include Twisted Ear in its coverage.
The Phantom’s late tail sat stiff and straight in a backless wooden chair beside a porcelain-topped table. There was a bottle of brandy on top of that, some glasses. With his hat off, the one with the twisted ear had a saturnine, grotesque look that came from too much forehead and too little hair. Those features, combined with the maltreated ear and a darkly brooding expression, lent a sinister touch the Phantom hadn’t noticed when the other was staked across from the Clarion Building and drifting along behind him on Broadway.
He knew what had happened. He had been right about the man on the floor below. That party had intended coming up the last flight of stairs. But then he had glimpsed the Phantom beside the door and had drawn his own conclusions.
It had been a comparatively simple matter to use a telephone in the law office below for a warning to the pair the Phantom now held at gun’s point.
He understood another thing. The one who wore the pearl-gray hat must be Bernard Pennell — the ‘Bernie’ the two had spoken of and expected.
The Phantom didn’t like the switch that had forced his hand. These two men were hirelings of higher-ups — small fry, pawns in the riddle of the eight-ball murder. The Phantom’s interest lay with those who had plotted Arthur Arden’s killing, the unknown character, or characters, who had planned and executed the shooting at the lodge.
But, his hand forced, the Phantom had no choice but to see it through. It meant he had lost a chance to catch up with Pennell. By this time the man who had spent two days at the Lakeside Inn must have left the building and disappeared into thin air.
The Phantom’s mouth tightened. Not a word had been spoken since he had closed the door behind him. The piano music from the first floor made a fantastic background. Against it, the quickened breathing of the two was loud and rapid.
“You’ve not only let him duck you,” the frigid voice accused the man in the backless chair, indicating the Phantom, “but you’ve given him a free ride around here!”
Twisted Ear said nothing. Thoughts kaleidoscoped through the Phantom’s taut mind. He moved forward again while the man who had snapped out the last words backed up.
The telephone was on the windowsill, atop a Manhattan directory. The Phantom inched toward it. He could call Inspector Gregg at Headquarters. He could have Gregg pick up the two men in the room, though it might be hard to make any charge stick! The cold-voiced man possibly could be booked on a Sullivan violation — if he didn’t have a gun permit. A suspicion of murder charge would hardly stand up when a smart lawyer went to work on it. There was no concrete evidence to tie either or both of the men in with Arthur Arden’s murder at Lake Candle.
The same thought must have been running through the pale eyed man before the Phantom.
“All right, turn us in,” he said. “See how far that gets you.”
Twisted Ear relaxed slightly. “That’s right, Dan. He hasn’t got anything on us!”
“Nothing,” the Phantom said tersely, “except a murder rap!”
He reached the telephone as he spoke. The automatic went from his right hand to his left without any change in its level aim. The Phantom’s right forefinger reached out for the open circle in the dial, after he had unpronged the instrument and laid it on the windowsill.
He never clicked off Headquarters’ number.
The creak of the door on its hinges was synchronous with the lazy, drawled command of the one who came in.
“Let your gun go, and keep your hands away from your sides!”
*****
FROM the corner of his eye the Phantom saw the pearl-gray hat and the thin face beneath its brim. ‘Bernie’ quietly shouldered the door shut as the Phantom tossed his automatic away and spread his arms wide.
“See what else he’s wearing in the hardware line,” Bernie said.
The man walked as far as the table. His right hand was clamped around the tenite grip of a High Standard automatic. The type, the Phantom saw instantly, that fired .380 cartridges. A particularly vicious weapon in an experienced hand.
Twisted Ear got hastily out of the chair. The man in the pearl-gray hat said, “Not you, Len. Let Dan do it.”
Dan felt over the Phantom’s person with a quick, professional touch. His fingers missed little in their search. He tossed the Phantom’s wallet, police badge, and keys to the porcelain-topped table where the brandy bottle stood.
“That’s all,” he said.
Bernie looked at the badge quizzically, but he made no comment. His thin face went back in the Phantom’s direction.
“We’ve caught ourselves something. We’ll tie this gentleman up and keep him safe until I find out what to do with him. I might be wrong, but I have an idea a certain person is going to be very much interested in him.”
He shifted his feet, told the twisted-eared Len what he wanted done, and watched the Phantom narrowly while Len, crossing the room, opened the closet and fumbled around on its shelves.
The gravelly voiced Dan lighted a cigarette and inhaled deeply. Silently he waited until Len dug a length of sash-cord out of the closet and came back with it. “This ought to do. It’s tough.” He gave it a two-handed yank as if to verify his opinion.
“Go to work on him,” Bernie said to Dan. “Make it escape-proof.”
Dan did, while the Phantom, motionless, made no move to interfere. But his mind was busy while the knots were being tied. He saw his cue was to play a waiting game. Delayed action offered more possibilities for an eventual payoff than the risk of attempting to buck three-to-one odds — without a gun.
When the Phantom was neatly trussed up, Bernie pushed him down onto another of the backless chairs in the sparsely furnished room. He stowed his automatic in a sheath worn low under his vest on the left side and fingered through the wallet Dan had taken from the Phantom’s inner coat pocket. There was nothing revealing in it, but Bernie examined each item of its contents with scrupulous care. Finally he discarded it with a shrug.
“You stay around and keep our friend company,” he told Dan. “You’re coming with me, Len. We’ll be back,” he added, over his shoulder, “after a while. Watch this guy, Dan.”
“Don’t worry. I’ll take care of him.”
A few minutes later Bernie, with Twisted Ear accompanying him, went out. Dan watched them go, turned, and helped himself to a glass and the brandy bottle. He smacked his lips appreciatively; glanced out of the window; rubbed his chin; and, taking the chair Len had occupied, placed it across from where the Phantom sat and dropped into it.
For awhile he amused himself with a nail file. The Phantom watched him, hiding his interest behind half closed eyes. Len had picked up the automatic the Phantom had dropped at Bernie’s command. He had put it on the table, not far from the wallet. The Phantom’s hooded gaze strayed to his gun. It was no more than four feet away from him. Four tantalizing feet — forty-eight short inches!
Cautiously he tested the sash cord. His hands were behind his back, lashed down just above his hips and out of Dan’s idle gaze. The Phantom moved his wrists. The cord was evidently old and had lost much of its former stiffness. It was soft against the bones in his wrist. He kneaded it warily, feeling it stretch slightly as the minutes passed; and he kept at it.
Once, Dan, the nail file put away, gave him a sharp
look. The Phantom yawned. Dan got up and walked around to the side of the chair where his prisoner sat. He shot a glance at the Phantom’s bonds and, satisfied, went back to his seat.
Downstairs, the piano music had stopped. Somebody had gone out of the office of Horgan and Carter, pausing to call back, “I’ve left for the day, if anyone phones, Marge.”
*****
THE Phantom started on the sash cord again. It was slow, tedious, nerve-wracking work. It had to be done surreptitiously, with no motion of the upper arms or shoulders to attract the attention of the man across from him.
Strength and muscular development had always been part of the Van Loan code. More than once Dick Van Loan’s superb physical condition had stood the Phantom Detective in good stead. It was declaring dividends now in chafed wrists which, by the dint of patient perseverance, had loosened one knot sufficiently to allow his right hand to slip free.
The Phantom bent slightly forward as if easing his position. Dan’s cold eyes focused on him. More than an hour had elapsed since Bernie and Len had left the room — sixty minutes, marked by shadows lengthening across the uncarpeted floor.
Grimly, the Phantom examined the angles of the situation. He had been wrong once that afternoon. He had figured Pennell, after making the warning call from the office below, had faded from the picture. Instead, the man in the pearl-gray hat had come up to investigate — probably sure that his two employees had carried out his orders, that the Phantom had been subdued and was on ice.
Now, the Phantom was quick to see, that initial mistake might be made to yield results, favorable results. It wouldn’t be too difficult, he was confident, to overpower Dan — to reverse the setup. Then, he told himself, with the frosty voiced man his prisoner, he would be in a position to deal with Pennell and Len when they returned.
The Phantom’s pulses quickened. Bernie Pennell was a prize worth twice the value of Dan and Len. For Pennell, undoubtedly, was the direct link to the man responsible for Arthur Arden’s murder. And once he got his hands on Pennell he could pressure him into revealing things important to the cracking of the case. But first he’d have to get the thin-faced character. Only then would he be closer to the solution of this case which, so far, was cloaked in mystery.
And time was a double-edged factor now.
Hands free, the Phantom was ready to go into action. He cleared his throat, saying, “How about a drink?”
Dan leered at him. “After awhile.”
“Come on, get me a drink of water.”
Dan considered the request. There was a basin across the room. After a thoughtful pause the man in the brown suit got up. He walked over to the table and picked up one of the glasses. With that in hand he started for the sink.
He had taken no more than a half dozen steps toward it before the Phantom rose up from the backless chair like a wraith from a magic bottle. His legs were still lashed together, but he had made his plans and knew every move. He flung himself toward the porcelain-topped table. In a flash he had his automatic and was swinging around to meet Dan who, hearing the slap of hands on the porcelain, turned rapidly.
Dan threw the glass. The Phantom flicked his head aside, and the glass sailed through the window with a splintering crash. Dan’s gun was out before the echoes of the breaking window had died. He fired point-blank, the slug whistling perilously close to the Phantom’s head.
The Phantom, noted for his snap-shooting ability, squeezed his automatic’s trigger. Promptly, the gun flew out of Dan’s hand, and the man grabbed for his bullet-creased wrist with a throaty curse.
Holding him at bay, the Phantom tore away his leg bonds while, from the regions below, he heard the sudden blast of a police whistle, voices, doors opening and closing.
He kicked the sash cord off his legs and pounced on Dan like a swooping hawk. But, even as he yanked the man toward him, the Phantom felt little satisfaction in the complete turnabout that made the cold-voiced watchdog his prisoner.
He had Dan; but now, warned away by the confusion aroused by the breaking window and the shots, the prize he had planned to trap was out of his reach!
CHAPTER X
IN THE BAG
LONG months had passed since the last time Chip Dorlan had worn a tuxedo. In his room at a mid-Manhattan boarding house, Chip, in black and white, eyed himself critically in the bureau’s mirror.
He tilted the mirror back so he could get as much of a full-length view of himself as possible. He frowned at his reflected image. The suit seemed to fit all right, but he must have put on a little weight around the middle. The top trouser button was a bit tight when he fastened it.
Chip turned for a profile glimpse before he made sure he had everything he needed for his night’s excursion into the realm of entertainment. Plenty of money in his leather wallet, a filled cigarette case, his keys, and the typed list Steve Huston had give him late that afternoon.
Dorlan consulted that before he put on his hat. They had tossed to see which one would take which territory, and which night resorts, in their following out of the Phantom’s orders.
Chip had lost, and Steve had taken the places from 51st Street to 59th. That left Chip with almost twenty night-resorts to visit in the Times Square and Longacre sectors.
He walked from the boarding house to the blatant boulevard whose varicolored lights painted the night sky with bright coloring. As he went along, an enigmatic smile turned down the corners of his mouth. A blonde named Vicki. One of the last to see Arthur Arden alive. A girl, Steve had told Chip, who the Phantom believed had been at the Lake Candle lodge with young Arden, a short time before he had been killed.
A blonde girl, Chip’s thoughts ran on, vitally necessary to the Phantom’s investigation of the case. And either he or Steve Huston had to get a lead on her. It really was like the haystack and the needles he had gagged about to the Phantom at the Green Spot.
However tough the assignment appeared on the surface, it was the type of thing Chip liked to handle. In Army Intelligence he had been called upon to do that sort of work — finding some suspected person who had apparently dropped completely out of sight and decided to remain unfound. He had been eminently successful in his service days and hoped he hadn’t lost his touch.
An hour later, Chip began to realize the difficulties confronting him. In several of the places he stopped, there had been no trouble learning Arthur Arden had been a patron. And no trouble learning that Arden had always been accompanied by some attractive young lady. Sometimes, Chip was told, they had been blondes. Other times brunettes, redheads, or black haired beauties.
But their names were a blank to those who had answered Dorlan’s questions. The mention of “Vicki” rang no bells, paid no tickets.
Chip kept at it doggedly. From Tom and Jerry’s Carousel, just off 44th Street, he visited five more places in quick order and without results.
It was after midnight then. The theaters had emptied an hour before, and the tempo of the partying world Dorlan looked in on was at its full rhythmic beat, its highest pitch.
He consulted his list. Steve had put a big X after the name “Esplanade.” From where Dorlan stood on 46th Street, he could see that title in flashing, blue-neon tubing against the night murk of the side street. It went on and off, winking like a weary eye at a jaundiced public.
Chip pulled himself together and headed for the Esplanade. He was tired. The beer that he had consumed at numerous places wasn’t doing him any good, and his trouser waistband seemed to get tighter and tighter. Still, each new address brought fresh hope. A blonde named Vicki. If it would help getting a line on her, he vowed, he’d stay on the job until the sun came up over Long Island City and another day dawned.
The doorman at the Esplanade gave Chip a toothy welcome. Chip Dorlan smiled back, though with not such a dental display. He walked into a rococo foyer to the dulcet strains of expensive band music. Most of it was blotted out by the cacophonous rumble of voices. To Chip they sounded like Niagara Falls at its thundero
us best.
He drew a bead on the hat-check counter and steered a course toward it. Dorlan had an idea that the ornamental young lady who handled the skimmers and reefers of the convivial customers would know more about Arden’s activities than anyone else. So, when he reached the counter, he waited until a girl with brown-gold hair and a makeup that was so perfect it looked like a mask, finished handing a derby to a fat man and fluttered her mascaraed lashes in Chip’s direction.
She picked up a brass disk. Chip shook his head. “I’m not staying. Just looking for information. Willing to buy some — if it’s what I’m after.”
*****
SEA-BLUE eyes contemplated him without particular interest. Blood-red nails, so perfect they didn’t look real, tapped gently on the counter. Finally the girl spoke.
“What kind of information?”
“About Arthur Arden.”
From the way she drew into herself Chip was aware that she had read about Arden’s murder. From her quick stare at him he knew she had him pegged as a cop.
“Headquarters?” Her voice was as smooth as her golden cheeks.
“Not directly. Private investigation.” Chip fingered a bill out of his wallet. The Phantom always, gave him unlimited expense money. Long ago, Dorlan had learned that the bigger the bill, the quicker the results.
The blue eyes widened a trifle when she saw the denomination printed on the green paper. She darted a glance around as if to make sure no one was watching.
“What do you want to know?”
“Arden used to come here?”
“All the time.”
“With dames.” Chip made it a statement rather than a question. She nodded.
“I’m trying to tab a blonde he was friendly with. A girl named ‘Vicki.’ ”
The hat checker laughed. “What do you mean — blonde? He had a different one every time he dropped in.”
She broke off. Dorlan waited for the same, “Sorry, I don’t know her,” which he had got all along the line. But she didn’t say that. Instead, the high lustered nails stopped their tapping, and the long lashes lowered over eyes which suddenly became thoughtful.
Phantom Detective - Black Ball of Death Page 6