THE PHANTOM DETECTIVE #1:
THE EMPEROR OF DEATH
by G. WAYMAN JONES
Published by
Wildside Press, LLC
www.wildsidepress.com
The Emperor of Death originally appeared in the February, 1933 issue of The Phantom
Detective magazine, copyright © 1933 by Standard Magazines, Inc.
This edition copyright © 2007 by Wildside Press LLC.
All rights reserved.
Table of Contents
CHAPTER I: TREASON!
CHAPTER II: THE EYE OF DEATH
CHAPTER III: THE PHANTOM MEETS THE FOE
CHAPTER IV: PAPERS OF DEATH
CHAPTER V: THE MEETING
CHAPTER VI: ENTER THE DOPE
CHAPTER VII: THE CRIPPLE
CHAPTER VIII: THE MAD RED STRIKES
CHAPTER IX: HESTERBERG’S WORD
CHAPTER X: HEARING BUT NOT SEEING
CHAPTER XI: A BARGAIN FOR LIFE
CHAPTER XII: THE VIGIL
CHAPTER XIII: “I CAN’T TALK”
CHAPTER XIV: RUBY
CHAPTER XV: JUDGE PINELLI
CHAPTER XVI: HESTERBERG STAKES ALL
CHAPTER XVII: THE PHANTOM TAKES THE TRAIL
CHAPTER XVIII: EDGETOWN
CHAPTER XIX: AN OLD TRICK
CHAPTER XX: THE GAMBLE OF LIFE
CHAPTER I
TREASON!
RICHARD CURTIS VAN LOAN stood in the friendly darkness of a tenement doorway, his face buried in the ample collar of his overcoat. From time to time, his alert eyes swept the dimly lit street as if in impatient search of something.
A big black town car slowly wended its way through the traffic toward him. Van Loan sighed with the air of a man who has relieved his fears, and stepped out on the edge of the curb. His slouch hat was pulled down over his eyes, his chin still buried in his coat. The driver of the car could not have recognized him even if he had turned his well-trained head, which he didn’t. Van Loan entered the car without raising his head. He picked up the speaking tube and said:
“I think you know where.”
The chauffeur nodded, and the purring car started forward silently through the streets of Baltimore.
As they passed through the town, Van Loan thrust his hand in his coat pocket, and, pushing back his head, hastily adjusted a black silk mask across his eyes. Now satisfied that he was beyond recognition, he no longer sank his firm, square chin in his collar.
He leaned back in the seat and lit a cigarette, secure in the knowledge that he had not been observed, quite confident that this esoteric mission of his was not known to his enemies. He smoked placidly, utterly unaware that peril, in the form of a black Lincoln sedan, followed close behind him.
They were but twenty miles out of Washington when the Lincoln swept in to the attack. A motor pounded somewhere behind them. A horn blared raucously. A blackness, darker than the darkness of the night, swept along the road, swerved inward forcing Van Loan’s car to the dangerous soft shoulders of the Number One Highway.
Brakes locked, screamed, and threw an acrid stench into the air. A man’s voice shouted. Both cars stopped dead, the hood of Van Loan’s car touching the Lincoln’s mudguard.
Cursing the false sense of security which had paralyzed his normal alertness, Van Loan sprang to the door of the car, a snub-nosed automatic in his hand. His mouth was set in a grim white line as he stepped out onto the running board to challenge his enemies of the night.
But those enemies, apparently, were more than willing to meet him. Three black shapes whirled through the darkness. Van Loan’s gun spat twice. Red streaked black. He heard a cry of pain. Then the trio of flying shapes completed their journey. They landed upon him, knocking the breath from his body, seizing the wrist that held the weapon. A fist sank deep in the pit of his stomach. He went down as if an avalanche had struck him.
Yet he retained his consciousness. He heard a harsh voice cry: “Get the cars out on the road. Hurry. There’s little time to waste.”
Van Loan lay on the ground held there by one man now. The others had gone in answer to the orders of the harsh voice. In Van Loan’s consciousness there remained a single salient thought, a command which every living nerve in his body knew that it must obey.
He must not let them take his mask from his face!
Already his captor was bending over him, an evil grin on his face, his hand outstretched. He assumed evidently, that his victim was already knocked out. His fingers touched the edge of the black silk mask, for the retention of which Dick Van Loan had already resolved to give his life.
He summoned up every ounce of his energy, every tithe of his strength. His clenched fist came up from the ground. His knuckles crashed into flesh. The other man yelled, and fell backward. Van Loan sprang to his feet fighting for the wind that had been knocked from his body a moment before. He heard an alarmed voice from the car say: “What the hell —?”
Then he waited no longer. He ran from the road — ran as if all the hounds of hell were at his heels, and disappeared into the friendly foliage whose concealing qualities were enhanced by the heavy blanket of the night.
Their voices followed him, though their feet could not. A string of oaths ripped through the night. “You fools. He’s gone. We’ve lost him. Get that car out. Tie up that chauffeur. There’s one thing we can do before he gets to Washington. Hurry!”
Van Loan ran on. He turned, essaying to keep a course parallel to the road. A root suddenly snaked across his instep. He fought desperately to keep his balance. Then he fell. His head struck something hard and metallic. Blackness which put the night to shame flooded his brain. He lay there quietly, silent as the woods which surrounded him.
A half an hour ticked past. Thirty minutes of time of which Dick Van Loan would never be conscious. Then he stirred, groaned. His eyes opened. For a moment he lay perfectly still, orienting himself, collecting his faculties. Then his hand shot to his face.
His mask was still there!
But the momentary exultation that followed the realization of that fact was short-lived. In a single mental picture he abruptly recalled the events of the evening. He sprang to his feet, disregarding the dull twinging pain in his head. Then he plunged through the underbrush toward the road again.
His automatic had been lost in the brawl of half an hour ago. But nestling comfortably in his snug shoulder holster was another. He reached for it as the white line in the center of the highway became visible through the trees.
Half a dozen big cars whizzed by him. Then he saw the Ford. It was a dilapidated affair, though capable of forty miles an hour. As it came nearer he stepped into the center of the road and waved his hands, taking care that the headlights should play upon his weapon.
The Ford stopped and an alarmed black face thrust its head from the open window.
“Listen, mister, I ain’t got nothin’. It ain’t no use holding me up.”
Van Loan took no notice of his words. Instead, he climbed into the car beside the black man. He brandished his gun menacingly.
“I’m not holding you up,” he said. “I want you to drive me to Washington as fast as you can. Do it and you’ll make twenty dollars. Stall and you’ll get into trouble.”
The black man became affable. “Twenty bucks? Sure, boss. I’ll take you to Florida for that. What part of Washington does you want to go to?”
Van Loan’s eyes twinkled behind the mask. In a low tone he whispered the address of his destination.
The driver’s eyes popped, and the fear that had been upon him now evolved to amazement — and a tremendous respect. The car rattled on toward the capital.
The black limousine that Van Loan had left Baltimore in rolled silent
ly down Pennsylvania Avenue. It slithered to a stop. A man of Van Loan’s height and build got out. On his face was a black silk mask. He and the limousine moved in opposite directions.
The masked man walked along beside a grilled fence until he came to a sentry in a marine’s uniform. The man approached the gate that the sailor guarded. A rifle barred his way.
The masked man met the sentry’s inquiring gaze.
“Andrew Jackson,” he said quietly.
The rifle was replaced on the marine’s shoulder.
“Pass,” he said.
The masked man walked through the gate along a gravel path that apparently led to the rear of a large house. He climbed four steps to a small porch at the back of the house. A burly man in evening clothes put a hand on his wrist.
“Who are you?” he demanded.
The masked man’s lips smiled ever so faintly.
“Andrew Jackson,” he said again.
The burly man’s hand left his wrist and respectfully touched his forehead. “Go ahead,” he said. “He’s waiting.”
The masked man entered the house. It was a large house with mazes of stairways and doors. Yet the nocturnal visitor did not falter. He walked with the air of a man who knew every vagary of the mansion’s architecture.
On the third floor, he left the stairs and walked down a long corridor. Before a closed door stood a hard-faced man wearing a derby. The masked man approached him.
“Andrew Jackson,” he said confidently.
The man in the derby nodded, then tapped deferentially upon the door. A tired voice said: “Come in.”
The masked man disappeared and the door closed behind him.
He stood just inside the doorway. It was a large well-lighted room with drawn curtains. In the far corner was an enormous desk, behind which sat a kindly-faced elderly gentleman, with weary, very tired eyes. The man in the mask bowed, walked across the room and took the proffered hand of the other.
“It is an honor to meet such a courageous gentleman as the Phantom,” said the man behind the desk. “I am glad you have come.”
The masked man bowed again. “If you think I can serve my country, I am only too glad to put myself at your service.”
The other nodded, then lapsed into a thoughtful silence. Then he cleared his throat and spoke.
“You have been called in,” he said, “at the suggestion of Elmer Havens, who is the only man in the world knowing your true identity. I know your reputation, and it is my belief that you are the one man who can aid us in our fight.”
The masked man said simply, “I shall do my best.”
The other nodded. He continued: “Two things beset our country today. One is the world-wide financial depression, the other, the dominance of the criminal and gangster. The power of the underworld must be broken. Recently, a man has risen to combine all the nefarious forces of crime. Thus far the one point in the favor of the law has been the jealousy, the lack of organization of the criminal. But now this man — this genius, has come to rally all the armies of crime to his banner.
“I called him genius. He is. I have here the reports from our agents. I can give you no further information than these reports. I cannot help you officially. I place my trust in you. I place the trust of the country in you. You must do your best with little information against terrific odds. Here are the papers. Are there any questions?”
The masked man took the leather despatch case which the elderly gentleman with the very tired eyes handed to him.
“No questions,” he said. “However I pledge you all my resources. My life, if need be.”
The elderly gentleman rose and extended his hand. The masked man accepted it. For a moment they stood there gazing into each other’s eyes.
“Well, good luck, Mr. Phantom,” said the man behind the desk. “May God be with you. Good-by.”
The masked man bowed. “Good-by,” he said. He half turned toward the door, then suddenly catching himself, he faced his host once more and backed slowly from the room, opening the door behind his own back.
It was not an empty gesture, rather an adherence to ordinary etiquette. For no citizen may turn his back on the President of the United States!
The gentleman with the weary eyes watched the door close, then with a sigh turned back to the affairs of state.
The man in the mask retraced his steps through the White House, down the gravel path, until at last he came into the street again from the gate at which the marine kept his untiring vigil.
He walked slowly down Pennsylvania Avenue which was now deserted. The only sign of life he saw was the burly figure of a traffic cop some two blocks away.He started suddenly as he saw a movement behind one of the stretching trees that lined the avenue. His hand fell to his hip pocket. But too late. A figure took shape in the gloom. Sprang. Something black and heavy hurtled through the air and came down on the masked man’s head. A hand snatched the leather dispatch case from under his arm. Two blocks away, the policeman’s whistle blew.
And Dick Van Loan, regretting that he did not have time to search the man further, took a hasty glance at the policeman who raced toward him, then started off almost twice as fast in the opposite direction. As he went he thanked his lucky stars that he had been in time; and also that the reputation of the President of the United States was not one of loquaciousness.
CHAPTER II
THE EYE OF DEATH
VAN LOAN ceased his contemplation of the documents on his desk and lighted an Egyptian cigarette. A frown wrinkled his brow, and for a moment he stared blankly into space. He was frankly worried. Apparently there was more in this affair than he had thought at first.
When Havens first suggested he take this job, he had done it in the spirit of a lark, the same spirit that had prompted him to handle other cases which had made his name a byword among decent people and a Nemesis to the underworld.
It was Havens, the publisher of a dozen newspapers, who had suggested that he become the Phantom and attempt to solve certain cases for the papers that the police had failed upon; and it was Havens who had suggested this latest undertaking.
Yet Van Loan was positive that only three living men had known of his appointment with the President — the latter, Havens and himself. Yet he had been waylaid by someone who seemed to know as much of his plans as he did himself.
If this super-intelligence, regarding whom the meager documents on his desk concerned themselves, had so easily discovered what he had regarded as a secret impossible of transpiration, the task he had so lightly assumed would probably prove to be the most dangerous adventure in his checkered, perilous career.
However, if he was worried he was most certainly not afraid. Richard Curtis Van Loan had stood shoulder to shoulder with the reaper too often to fear anything living — or for that matter, dead.
Born to society and wealth, the War had taught him the utter futility of the pampered life he had led in his youth. On the flaming Eastern front he had learned to grapple with death daily. Further, he had learned to like it.
Peace-time adjustment was hard — impossible. That was the reason he had so eagerly jumped at his best friend’s suggestion to combat crime in the role of the Phantom. And as the underworld would attest vehemently, he had been thoroughly successful.
To alleviate the boredom that attacked him he had thoroughly studied and no less thoroughly mastered the various arts which would render his war on crime more effective. His knowledge of criminology vas perhaps equaled by only one man — the incomparable Lombroso.
His histrionic ability, and his talent for make-up were not surpassed by any actor that ever trod the boards. He had cultivated a gift of mimicry and ventriloquism which had stood him in good stead on more than one occasion. He had but to hear a voice once, in order to be able to imitate it perfectly.
Thus it was that the Phantom had been signally successful when lesser sleuths had failed. Van Loan had perfected his chosen art to such a point that beside him the average professional dete
ctive was a lumbering tyro.
Yet, despite the fact that he had risen to the top of his chosen profession, he was not altogether happy. In order to pursue the hazardous career of the Phantom, which he created, he was compelled to forego the things which any normal man may have for the asking. Love, romance, children, a home — these things were not for Richard Van Loan. These tranquil joys were not for a man who faced death daily, who gambled his life with criminals every moment. No, all life is a compromise and the compromises which he had been compelled to make in order to create the Phantom were no small things.
Yet, he would rather have it this way. Though at times when he thought of Muriel, his heart lay heavy within him. Muriel was Frank Havens’s daughter, and under other circumstances, Van often thought of her as his bride. She possessed all the charms and virtues that he would have asked in his wife. But he realized he could never realize that dream. For the Phantom had been born from the ashes of romance.
He sighed and glanced impatiently at the clock. Havens should be here by now, and he was eager to report the events of the night before to his friend, the only man who knew the true identity of him who the world called the Phantom.
He lit his third cigarette from the butt of its predecessor, when the phone jangled impatiently and the operator announced:
“Mr. Havens is calling Mr. Smith.”
“Havens? Good. Send him in.”
He hung up and a few minutes later the door opened to admit a tall gray-haired man of about forty-two. Van sprang to his feet and greeted his visitor cordially, with an extended hand. Rather, to his surprise, Havens made no move to take it. Instead the publisher sat down on the couch, and said in a low, hoarse, tone:
“What’s the time?”
Van glanced at his watch.
“Ten to twelve,” he said casually. But his eyes studied the other’s face with concern. Havens did not look like his usual self. His normally keen eyes were dull and glazed. His voice, usually alive and animated, was sodden, expressionless. Further, he who had yesterday been so excited about the Phantom’s latest adventure seemed to have little concern with it today.
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