To the receptionist, the Phantom gave the name of Gray and was promptly admitted. The Phantom sat down before the publisher’s desk and related, briefly the events up to date. Havens listened intently; and, when the Phantom was finished, opened a drawer, and handed him a sheaf of checks.
“As you requested,” Havens said, “the bank turned over to me the accumulated checks from Arthur Arden’s account. I hope they’ll be of some help to you.”
The Phantom quickly thumbed through them until he came to one made out to Dr. Winterly. It was in the sum of twenty thousand dollars, was dated fifteen days before, and had been cashed at Dr. Winterly’s bank.
None of the other checks was of interest. Arden’s balance had been quite small after Winterly’s check went through.
“Arden paid Winterly twenty thousand,” the Phantom told Havens. “It seems odd, if this wasn’t an aboveboard transaction, that a check would have been used. Especially since Winterly turned it into cash anyway.”
“Winterly is an odd duck,” Havens mused. “Some go so far as to call him a crackpot. I suggest you try to make the man talk about this.”
“Tonight, I shall,” the Phantom promised. “I don’t want to be seen even leaving for Lake Candle. Of course, I may not be watched, but at this stage of the game it’s silly to take chances. Meanwhile, I’m going to check on a factory in a town called Galloway. There is a town by that name in New Jersey; and this town has, according to a map I found of it, a street called Springdale Road, which was also indicated on papers Len Barker tried to dispose of.”
“I talked to Arthur’s father again last night,” Havens said. “He swears he has no idea why the boy was murdered, and I believe him. He did admit he had been a bit severe with Arthur lately in the matter of money. Just a fatherly method of making a spendthrift son realize that money has more than mere spending value.”
“I believe Mr. Arden,” the Phantom said. “Arthur was trying to replenish his finances by some fast method which entailed an investment of twenty thousand dollars, practically all he had left. I think he was taken — conned out of that money — and tumbled to the fact. He was promptly murdered before he could take action.”
“For twenty thousand dollars?” Havens seemed incredulous. “Of course, murder has been done for much less, but in this case — well, there seem to be underlings involved, downright criminal skill used, and great chances taken. Twenty thousand seems hardly worthwhile.”
The Phantom arose. “Suppose, Frank, there were others involved. Innocent people also being conned out of similar or even greater sums. Arden, knowing the truth, could have blown the top off the gyp game. So he was killed. The eight ball had something to do with it, and Arden wanted to be certain this clue was recognized and appreciated. It was not, unfortunately, because the sheriff in charge was not a man with too much imagination.”
“I could give it publicity,” Havens offered. “More publicity than you would think possible.”
“I’m afraid,” the Phantom said, “we’re better off tracking this down quietly. If there are other people being cheated, people who might recognize the meaning of the clue of the eight ball, they’d take immediate steps, and the man we want would simply vanish.”
“We’d know who he was,” Haven argued.
“I’m not too sure. There would be a man working openly. Someone to contact the suckers. But behind him, and directing and financing him, is someone else. The man we really want to land. Because there is such a man. He moved into the case last night when he stole the Mason jar of metallic powder from Arthur Arden’s apartment. And one of the crooks stated, while I was his prisoner, that a certain someone would be interested in me.”
Havens nodded. “As usual, Phantom, you’re right. Call on me if I can help in any way.”
*****
PROCEEDING from the newspaper building, the Phantom went to a large garage where he maintained a car under a pseudonym. He got this out, checked a map, and crossed the river to Jersey where he drove at a sedate speed toward the town of Galloway.
There, with his customary thoroughness, the Phantom investigated his clue from all angles before approaching it. First, he visited the town recorder’s office, went through his records, with especial interest for Springdale Road, and found that there was a factory on that street doing business under the name of the Fenton Corporation.
He looked up this firm, discovered it was legally incorporated and that the names of its officers were brand new to him. They were probably all phonies. From the recorder, a grizzled old veteran, he learned a few facts about the building.
“It was built during the first World War. Made cartridge shells there, and hand grenades. It’s a combination foundry and machine shop. Went bust about Nineteen Thirty and stayed idle for a long time. Then, during the last war, it was reopened. This time to cast parts of tanks. Steel, mostly. Soon after the war it went to making metal products. All sorts of things.”
“Is anyone working there now?” the Phantom wanted to know.
“They use maybe thirty employees Some talk going around that they mean to expand, but that’s all that has happened so far — just talk.”
The Phantom thanked him, secured specific directions, and drove out to Springdale Road. It extended from the center of the city for a distance of seven miles, beyond the outskirts. There were other buildings near the factory. The road was little used, quiet as a country lane, and the Phantom realized that if Fenton Corporation wanted strict privacy for their new business venture, they had it.
The factory was a one-story, sprawling affair. There were half a dozen smaller buildings and then one huge foundry with innumerable vents set in the roof. Some attempt had been made, at one time, to give the place a park-like appearance. Trees, shrubs, and grass had been planted between and around the buildings, but neglect and the poisonous fumes of molten metal had turned the vegetation into a stunted, stringy, gray-colored variety.
Around the whole place was a high, steel fence, clearly a relic of the war days when security measures were important. The main gate was equipped with a padlock. Beyond it, the factory seemed deserted; and no lights shone, though it was now well after sunset.
The Phantom left his car some distance away and approached the place. He studied the padlock and put to work his extensive knowledge of every type of lock. This one gave way to a thin instrument he took from a compact kit of burglar tools which he usually carried. In a moment he had the gate open enough to slip through. Closing it behind him, he snapped the padlock back into place.
He moved silently and swiftly now. While there seemed to be no evidences of life around the place, the Phantom was careful. He made his way toward the trailer building which, according to neat signs on the door, was the main office. The door to this building wasn’t locked, and instantly the Phantom’s suspicions mounted. It was more than possible that a watchman was on the premises; and, if this factory was the nucleus of some strange crime ring, this watchman would hardly be the usual type.
The Phantom drew his gun, snapped the safety to the “off” position, and made sure the weapon was ready for action before he returned it to its holster.
Off the main office, which was equipped with half a dozen stenographers’ desks, were the small private offices. The first two of these were empty, but the third was rather lavishly decorated with new desks and furniture and a large, extremely efficient looking safe in one corner.
Moving silently and using his flashlight, the Phantom sat down behind the big desk. The drawers contained letters and papers having to do with the plant. They were all addressed to a Paul Jardin, president of the firm — a name the Phantom believed to be as phony as the entire corporation setup.
Then he found a letter, typed and unsigned but addressed to Bernie Pennell. It was mixed into a sheaf of regular business letters, and the Phantom guessed that Pennell was also Paul Jardin, president of this factory.
The letter was brief, but. interesting. It read:
.
Contact Douglas Hoag, Texas oil man. Prospects good.
Worth millions. A gambler and not too smart.
.
The Phantom made a mental note of the name, leaned back in the leather chair, and tried to figure out what this could be about. He eyed the formidable surface of the safe door and wondered if he could break into that vault. He arose, went to the safe, and spun the combination. He put an ear against the door, near the dial, and then shook his head. This safe was new and burglar proof, except against a terrific charge of nitro.
*****
SUDDENLY, the Phantom snapped off his flash, scurried toward the office door, and flattened himself against the wall beside it. His keen hearing had detected the slow, lazy approach of a watchman. The office door opened; a flashlight ray swept across the room, lingered on the safe for a moment; and then the watchman went away.
The Phantom waited a few moments. Through the slit between the door and its frame he had a glimpse of the watchman — a powerfully-built, hard-faced character who looked more like a hoodlum, the type of a man capable only of taking orders and who would require advice if anything went wrong.
A slow smile came over the Phantom’s face along with the materialization of an idea. He quietly approached the safe door again, this time removing the flat kit of burglar tools from an inner pocket. He selected a small, sharp jimmy, and went to work. He had no hope of forcing the safe door, but he did inflict deep scratches on its surface. He dug around the combination too, scarring it badly.
Next, he took papers from the desk drawer and scattered them on the floor in front of the safe. He discovered a small steel fireproof box in the desk, used for postage stamps and petty cash. He placed this on the floor also, as if it had been carelessly removed from the safe and discarded.
This accomplished, he prowled the outer office until he found a cubbyhole where the telephone switchboard was located. He rigged the board so no calls could go through. Then he returned to the office, left the door open, and attacked the safe combination knob with a small steel hammer. He made a great deal of racket and kept it up until he heard the running steps of the watchman.
The Phantom raced out of the room, through the main office, and across the factory yard. He headed for the rear of the place and took no pains to make his progress any less noisy. A gun cracked behind him, but it was a wild shot, meant to intimidate more than bring a man down. The Phantom stopped close by the fence, scaled his hat over it, and then dodged for the darkest parts of the factory yard.
The watchman was running up, flash in one hand, gun in the other. He saw the hat on the other side of the fence, threw the beam of his light around the darkness outside the fence, and finally gave up. He returned to the factory office, turned on the lights, and studied the safe. To all appearances the safe had been opened, rifled, and then closed again. The watchman rubbed his chin, tried to figure it out, and finally went to the desk. He picked up the phone and dialed.
His call went no further than the switchboard which the Phantom now manned. After a suitable pause the Phantom cut in on the wire. He grunted a grouchy “Hello.”
“Bernie,” the watchman said, “this is Vogel down at the plant. Listen, a few minutes ago I heard a funny noise. Then somebody went tearing across the yard and got over the fence. I saw his hat where he’d dropped it. I came back, and I think he got the safe open.”
“You think!” the Phantom barked, and his voice was that of the sleek, smooth Bernie Pennell. “If the safe door is open, of course he got in.”
“But it isn’t,” Vogel protested mildly. “Just a lot of papers and a cash box on the floor outside the safe. I thought I better call you.”
“Vogel,” the Phantom said crisply “you know how to open that safe, don’t you?”
“You told me where the combination was hid,” Vogel said weakly. “I can do it, I guess.”
“Then do that and stop yapping. See if anything is missing. Hurry it up, call me back.”
“Yeah — right away. Won’t take more’n a minute or two.”
*****
VOGEL hung up hurriedly. He left gun and flash on the desk, went over to a bank of steel filing cabinets, and opened one drawer. On the inside of it was pasted a bit of paper with the safe combination numbers typed on it.
He memorized this, repeated them over and over as he approached the safe; and in a few moments he was swinging the door wide. He stared at the neatly arrayed contents, felt a full measure of relief, and started to rise and call Pennell back with the good news.
His wide grin of pleasure in not finding the safe rifled, changed to a grimace and a groan. He slid his tongue over suddenly dry lips and got up slowly, hands in the air.
“That’s very good,” the Phantom told him. “Now walk over and sit down behind the desk. Keep your hands on the arms of the chair, and don’t look for the gun you left on the desk. I have it.”
“Who — who are you?” Vogel gulped. “Listen — you don’t know what you’re horning into.”
“Let me decide that. I’m the Phantom Detective, not some crook you think you might intimidate.”
Vogel obeyed the Phantom’s orders, but that small brain of his was working hard. If he could get this man-hunter — but good — the prestige would be worth a fortune.
The Phantom kept one eye on Vogel while he examined the contents of the safe. The first thing that attracted him was a large glass jar containing what seemed to be more of that mysterious bronze-colored powder which he had found near Arden’s body and, again, in Arden’s New York apartment.
The Phantom also lifted out several foot-long bars of bronze colored metal. They were about three inches thick and four wide, but were deceivingly light in weight. Each bar bore the imprint of the figure 8.
There were also some loose leaf notebooks which proved interesting. They concerned detailed analysis of the metal bars and the powder. There were elaborate compilations of strength and stress of the metal, and many comparison tables for other and more common metals and alloys. All these tables and analysis charts were signed by Dr. Winterly.
The Phantom turned toward Vogel. “These metal bars — are they manufactured in this plant?”
“How do I know?” Vogel said gruffly. “I’m just a night watchman.”
“Who knows exactly whom to phone when something happens and who knows where the combination of the safe is located,” the Phantom said. “You’re more than a watchman, Vogel. You’re a crook, working for Bernie Pennell and Len Barker. I want to know about these metal bars.”
A glint of cunning showed in Vogel’s eyes. “Look — do I get a break if I help make you?”
“I can’t make any promises — except what will probably happen to you if you don’t help. You would be very wise to do as I request.”
“That metal is made here,” Vogel growled. “In a special furnace. There’s more of it hidden along the catwalk.”
“We’ll go and have a look,” the Phantom said. “Lead the way, Vogel.”
They crossed the factory floor, reached a circular steel stairway that led to a catwalk high above the factory floor. By means of this catwalk, an enormous crane could be reached. A crane with which the big crucibles of molten metal were hoisted out of the furnaces and moved to the rows of molds.
The control house of the crane was suspended from tracks, and moved up and down the length of the factory. A very thick chain dangled from beneath the car and was looped over to the catwalk where it was twisted around a large steel post.
They reached the catwalk, moved along it; and the Phantom was very alert. He suspected that Vogel had a trick up his sleeve, but he wanted the crook to pull it. Once Vogel made his attempt to get away, or kill the Phantom, he’d expose himself and could no longer claim to be only a watchman. The Phantom had an idea that Vogel, properly softened, might talk.
Vogel, ten steps ahead, moved faster. He was at the point where the heavy lift chain was tied up. There he stopped and pointed back into the
darkness at one of the corners of the factory floor below.
“The special furnace is over there,” he explained. “You can see the glow from it. They never let the fire go out.”
The Phantom half turned away from the man. He heard the faint clank of metal, wheeled back, and then threw himself forward and flat on the catwalk.
Vogel had detached the lift chain and sent it swinging in the Phantom’s direction. It would have crushed him against the side rail of the catwalk, or, perhaps, thrown him over the side. The chain was dragging along the catwalk but lightly, moving faster as it gained momentum.
Only the tail end of it skidded across the top of the Phantom’s head, but it made him see stars. The chain hit the side rail, smashed on through it effortlessly, and then went swinging out into space.
The Phantom was raising himself when Vogel leaped to the attack. The man knew how to fight. The Phantom seemed completely helpless sprawled on the catwalk. Vogel drew up short and lashed out a savage kick.
It collided with the side of the Phantom’s head, and his already outraged brain went fuzzy again. Vogel chortled and pulled back his foot for another kick. This one was meant to settle the one-sided affray quickly. But Vogel felt his ankle suddenly seized and twisted. He emitted a yowl of pain and crashed to the catwalk.
The Phantom crawled up on top of the man in time to use the side of his right hand in a blow that half paralyzed Vogel’s right arm. Vogel’s left hand darted out, fingers spread wide and aimed at the Phantom’s eyes.
Missing them, when the Phantom threw his head back, Vogel’s thick, powerful fingers closed around the Phantom’s throat. The Phantom had one hand in constant use holding down Vogel’s right hand. With the other he beat short, chopping punches to the region of the man’s heart. Vogel’s fat fingers shut off his wind completely. He couldn’t take too much of this without blacking out, and if he did for as little as ten seconds, he’d be a dead man.
Vogel seemed to sense that the Phantom was holding the advantage and pressed the attack harder, trying to use his knees now. The Phantom began aiming those left hand punches at Vogel’s jaw, but it wasn’t a glass jaw. The man could absorb plenty of punishment, and all the while the Phantom’s lungs clamored for air.
Phantom Detective - Black Ball of Death Page 10