He awoke shortly before eleven o’clock. Rested and fresh, he sprang from the bed. After attending to his ablutions, he sat down before a mirror, and opened a black makeup box on the dressing table. Deftly, his fingers drew the sticks of grease paint across his face.
His complexion slowly changed color; his features gradually became those of another man. And when at last he had finished, he stared into the mirror carefully scrutinizing his disguise. And the face that stared so grimly back at him was the face of Number 8 of Hesterberg’s henchmen, whose corpse lay stiff and stark in the other room.
As he rose from his seat his eyes fell on the photograph of Muriel Havens on the table. Her limpid eyes stared at him from the brown paper. For a moment, he stood stock still. A sigh escaped from his lips. His heart was heavy. Then with the air of a man resolved to return to duty, no matter where his heart lay, he turned abruptly away, and, going into the other room, occupied himself with the gruesome task of divesting the dead man of his clothing.
At exactly three minutes before midnight the Phantom shot a quick glance out of the window of his cab at the illuminated dial of the clock that decorated the marble façade of the Morton National Bank Building. He was two short blocks from his destination; two short blocks from his mysterious rendezvous with Hesterberg, the Mad Red.
His lips curled in a thin, ironical smile. So be it! At last he was to come to grips with the fatal personality that hung like an oppressive pall over the money marts of the world.
The ornate pile of the bank loomed up a block away. The Phantom rapped smartly on the glass partition that separated him from the driver with hard knuckles. His cab wheeled into the curb and pulled up short with a harsh grinding of brakes.
One eye on the hands of the clock that slowly jerked over to three minutes of the hour, Van flung a bill at the cabbie, heard him shift into gear and wheel away. He paused a moment, irresolute, at the curb. The minute hand of the clock moved over another notch. Two minutes to go till the fatal hour struck.
He experienced a sharp tightening of the nerves along his spine as he traversed the last block on foot. He was aware of a strange eerie tenseness in the air; the atmosphere was super-charged with an uncanny chill of portentous doom.
Suddenly there was a black hole in the night where the brilliantly illumined dial of the clock had been but a moment before. The abrupt failure of that symbol of financial integrity that had shone down on Wall Street for the past sixty years, came as a ominous signal — a potential warning.
But of what?
The Phantom paused in his strides for a moment. And it was then that he realized for the first time that not only the lights of the clock had failed but all other lights along the canyoned thoroughfare as well. The knowledge came to him as a distinct shock. For a panicky second he stumbled forward in an abysmal tunnel of stygian gloom. What a moment before had been a mazda spangled street of granite was now empty of all light.
Empty of all light, yes; but not of life.
The nerves of the Phantom snapped out of their momentary lapse. He was distinctly aware of a horde of strangely masked figures rushing by him with purposeful haste. They seemed to materialize out of the very gloom of the street, that a moment before had been empty of all save himself.
They brushed by him, grotesque, goggle-eyed, long-nosed gargoyles in the heavy pall of darkness. The Phantom sensed without seeing that they were all converging on the massive doors of the bank building.
He measured stride with the surging throng about him, vainly trying to estimate their numbers. Then, a moment later a sound — a strange and sibilant sound — a sinister sound, pierced through the mental arithmetic of his brain. His finely arched nostrils quivered; his throat was suddenly parched with an acid streak of fire!
Gas! He understood it all then — those hideous masks for faces. Hesterberg was marshalling his forces to the attack under a barrage of gas. The noxious poison flicked at the lining of his lungs. With a practice and skill perfected in the Argonne he laced his own gas mask over his head and charged up the granite steps of the bank on the double quick.
A sharp pencil of light from a pocket flash played over the fantastic group of six around the bank’s door. The Phantom’s heart kicked out a steady hundred and thirty as it finally came to rest on him, picking out the bold letter eight on the sleeve of his coat.
A sharp cultured voice drilled into the Phantom’s consciousness — a voice he was never to forget.
“Good! Number 8! What word have you received?"
Some instinct, some cunning premonition told the Phantom that he was being addressed by the Mad Red himself. Twin pulses beat at his throat; the knotted veins of his gnarled hands stood out like whipcords. For a moment he was assailed with a swirl of mad chaotic emotions. Why not whip the automatic from his shoulder holster and empty its load of lethal death into the madman’s heart?
Then with Hesterberg’s sharp reiterated phrase came sanity. Van had no desire to commit suicide just then.
“Well, Number 8 — what word — what word?”
The Phantom knew now that the inquiry concerned his own demise.
“Dead!” he answered in a clear monotone.
A sharp breath whistled through Hesterberg’s nostrils.
“Magnificent, Number 8. Stand by my right. Details 1 and 4 are in the bank by now. 5 and 2 have the building surrounded and are holding the street.” A sharp grating as of steel on steel came from behind the massive doors of the bank, to be greeted by another sharp exhalation from Hesterberg’s nostrils. “So — the door opens to us — like all other doors in the world shall open at my command.”
The six-inch portals swung slowly inward. Hard at Hesterberg’s right with the detail of men close behind them, the Phantom moved swiftly across the threshold of the bank.
CHAPTER IV
PAPERS OF DEATH
HIS KEEN ANALYTICAL BRAIN was working at high speed. It was quite obvious from the few words that had passed between him and the Mad Red that the Number 8 he was impersonating was of some importance in the Hesterberg councils.
A lieutenant, an adjutant of crime! So much the better! If he had been ordered to stand hard by the Master’s right, he would stand there — with his index finger coiled around the trigger of his gun.
But all such thoughts were momentarily wiped from his mind. Hesterberg’s pocket torch was darting like a hungry tongue of flame around the vaulted quadrangle of the bank. In weird, lurid flashes it depicted scenes of fantastic unreality.
Off to the right, behind a steel shield, three men worked with torches and explosives on the combination of a safe. Behind the grilled windows squads of men systematically rifled cash boxes. At every point of vantage, at every window and door stood a gas-masked giant with a gaping-mouthed submachine-gun crooked in ready hands.
Through the murky haze of the cloud of gas the scene was bizarre. At Van’s feet a blue uniformed watchman writhed in agony as the poison gas settled in a ball of fire in his chest. The Phantom’s first impulse was abruptly checked by the cursing snarl of Hesterberg as the latter stumbled over the prone body.
“Fool of a Bourgeois!” spat out Hesterberg. “Slave for a pittance to guard the treasures of your betrayers. You have suffered blindly long enough. Suffer now for a cause. The glorious Red cause of Alexis Hesterberg.”
Before the phantom was aware of what was happening the Mad Red whipped out a heavy German Luger and, aiming it point blank at the convulsed chest of the watchman, fired twice in quick succession. Two jets of smoke coughed from the nozzle of the gun; but there was no explosion. The gun was silenced. The Phantom’s eyes were twin gimlets of steel behind his protecting gas mask but his voice was calm, impersonal when he spoke.
“A good end for the old fool. But it was gold that killed him — not steel!”
“Red gold!” chortled Hesterberg. “Come, Number 8, we have work to do.”
Not quite knowing what his cue might be, the Phantom strictly obeyed his first order
and kept close to the side of the Mad Red. With rapid strides they traversed the broad marble floor of the bank.
The Phantom’s keen eyes took in the scene of frenzied activity about him; corrected his first impression and realized that though the masked figures were working at top speed there was an assurance about their movements that could only come from organization, precision and a technique dominated by a super-master mind.
He was only permitted a few brief glimpses of the systematic looting of the bank. Hesterberg — with a show of arrogant contempt at such a mad scramble for the evil yellow metal — led the way down the broad flight of steps at the rear of the building.
He never hesitated once; and the Phantom, living up to his grim appellation, followed close on his heels. With unerring stride, as if he were a daily familiar of the bank, Hesterberg led the way to the vault that sheltered the safety deposit boxes of the bank’s depositors.
Two of the Russian’s henchmen stood before the ravaged door, their work completed. The ponderous steel portal hung awry from one hinge, neatly and expertly blown from its moorings. With an avid eye on the dim-lit interior beyond, Hesterberg dismissed his two henchmen with a grunt and with two long eager strides swept into the interior of the stronghold.
For a second time that night the Phantom was tormented with the mad desire to call for an immediate showdown; to reveal himself to the Mad Red, not as Number 8, but as the Phantom himself. The momentary advantage was his. They were alone together, those two, deep in the subterranean vault. To him would be the vantage of a surprise attack. All he would have to do would be to draw his automatic.
But then sanity again asserted itself. To kill Hesterberg was one thing; to get out of the bank was another. And anyway, Mad Red or no, he couldn’t shoot the Russian down in cold blood. Time for gun play later, he decided. First he had to discover what mad enterprise brought Hesterberg to that particular vault of the bank.
He was not left long in doubt as the pencil of light from the pocket torch in the other’s hands came to rest on a brass plate above a huge strong box which bore the following legend: IMPERIAL JAPANESE EMBASSY.
For the first time the Phantom was given some inkling of the magnitude of the plunder. Let his henchmen loot the money coffers! He, Hesterberg, was interested in far more important things. State documents, State papers, secret files! Who could tell but that the balance of world power lay concealed behind that enigmatic locked door?
The looting of a bank was one thing, but the disrupting of international relations was another and far more important one. What was behind that locked door guarded by the seal of the Japanese Embassy? What contents lay within that little, two by two cubby-hole, that Hesterberg should have planned so minutely, risking so much to discover?
Hesterberg, too, was impatient with curiosity. With a hand that trembled slightly and an eye that gleamed fanatically even through the visor of his gas mask, he fitted a slender, tapering key into the lock of the box and turned it. The door swung open at his touch.
All thought of the automatic clutched in his right hand forgotten; all thought of an immediate showdown swept from his mind, the Phantom leaned eagerly over the Mad Red’s shoulder and peered eagerly into the dim recess of the stronghold.
Neat bundles of heavily sealed, official documents met his eye. Hesterberg plunged two rapacious hands into them; pulled them out to the probing light of his torch.
The first he discarded with a grunt of disdain. The Phantom noted that it was a list of the secret operatives of Moravia. The second and third packets Hesterberg swept from him with ill-concealed rage. They fell unnoted at his feet.
So intent was he on the remaining packets that he failed to note that his good right hand — Number 8 — had stooped to retrieve the fallen documents. While Hesterberg was avidly scanning the remaining papers, the Phantom managed to scribble a few words on the face of one of the packets and stuffed it into his inside pocket.
An ironic smile played on his lips for a moment. For the first time since assuming the role of Hesterberg’s henchman he felt sure of himself. He was playing his old game again; using his old style, his old technique.
His mental gloatings were cut short abruptly by a throaty chuckle of satisfaction from Hesterberg.
Hesterberg thumped the top packet in his hand with an enthusiastic fist and permitted the remaining ones to trickle through his fingers to the floor.
“Capital! Excellent! Tremendous!” he exalted. “This night’s work will carry us well along the road to success, Number 8!”
In vain the Phantom essayed to read the inscription on the topmost sheet of the papers clutched in Hesterberg’s hand. Before he could decipher the minute script, the Russian thrust the documents in his pocket with one hand and pounded the Phantom affectionately on the shoulder with the other. He hooked his arm under Number 8’s and led the way out of the vault.
“Our work is done here, Number 8,” he enthused. “Come, comrade, you are strangely silent tonight. Give me the details of the climax — of that little scene I so subtly arranged for our friend the Phantom.”
With Hesterberg’s words came a new worry for the Phantom. He had no qualms concerning his disguise. He was a past master in the art of makeup. And into the bargain his face was effectively concealed by the gas mask. Unfortunately, however, his acquaintance with the legitimate Number 8 had been of too short duration, had terminated so swiftly and tragically, that he wasn’t quite familiar with the other’s voice.
Though the mask that fitted snugly over his head would muffle his words, he realized the necessity of caution.
He tried to dismiss the affair with a shrug and a word.
“Havens was an excellent shot. Through the heart.”
Hesterberg grunted his satisfaction and with his arm still crooked under the Phantom’s led the way up the stairs to the main floor of the bank.
Though Van was guarding every word, his keen, analytical brain was functioning smoothly. He realized that if the Mad Red couldn’t recognize him through his disguise, by the same token the features of the Russian were concealed from him. His voice he would always remember; it was imprinted indelibly on his memory.
However, he determined before the night’s adventure was over to secure at least one glimpse of Hesterberg’s face. That he would find it interesting, he was sure. But before that, he had work to do; delicate work. He still had in the breast pocket of his coat the packet of documents he had retrieved from the floor.
A suspicion of a smile flitted across his thin lips as he recalled the hasty words he had scrawled on the topmost sheet.
They were on the main floor of the bank now. The Russian’s henchmen had completed their systematic looting of the bank’s treasure room.
The Phantom’s arm was still crooked under Hesterberg’s. He led the latter to a marble-topped table to the left.
“Why not leave a little memento for the directors of the bank?” he suggested.
Hesterberg got the idea at once. He chuckled sardonically to himself, stepped to the counter and picked up a pen.
“An excellent idea, Number 8,” he began. Then paused as he concentrated on the message he was to leave. The Phantom leaned familiarly over his shoulder and watched the pen as it scrawled in a fine hand:
Morton: You are the king of finance, but you lose to the Emperor of Death.
But the Phantom was not interested in any message that Hesterberg was to leave behind him. While the Russian chuckled over his wit, the Phantom’s hand with the finesse and lightning speed of a magician, eased the packet of documents from Hesterberg’s pocket and substituted in their place the one he, himself, had filched.
The operation was executed in the twinkling of an eye before Hesterberg had dotted the finali of his message.
Then a swift change came over Hesterberg. His old aggressive manner asserted itself and he issued a series of crisp orders to his men. Like a well-drilled army corps they marshaled themselves at their leader’s words and beat a h
urried retreat from the bank.
Outside, the darkness still hung over the street like a black mantle. The cloud of gas laid down at the first attack was slowly rising. From a short distance away came the confused murmur of many voices and the heavy tramp of hurrying feet.
Suddenly the stillness of the night was shattered by the shrill blast of a police whistle directly ahead. It was repeated, first from the right and then from the left.
Hesterberg paused a moment on the topmost step of the bank and surveyed the scene and his men. He issued his final order, sharply, explicitly.
“The police are amassing at last,” he said lightly. “But as usual, they are too late. The gas barrage won’t have lifted for another minute.”
He turned to Number 8 at his side. “The Council of Five will repair with me to headquarters at once. Pass along the word.”
The Phantom turned to the man next to him and repeated the order. Hesterberg was addressing his men.
“The police will charge in exactly forty seconds. I am leaving the scene of action now. Cover our retreat. Meet the police in massed formation. Depend on your submachine-guns. Hold them for at least two minutes, then disband to your stations. Await there for further orders through the regular channels.”
The Phantom gambled on giving his identity away, but boldly assumed that he was one of the Council’s Five. He stuck close to Hesterberg’s right, his gun hand hovering in the region of his automatic.
A moment later his assumption proved correct as he was wedged into the rear of an ebony limousine between Hesterberg and another helmeted figure with the numeral 12 emblazoned on his sleeve band. A man was at the wheel with an other beside him. With a roaring exhaust the car pulled away from the curb and careened down the deserted canyon of Wall Street.
As they sped from the scene of the looting of the bank, a staccato rumble of gunfire told the Phantom that the police had charged.
Massed around the steps of the Morton Bank two score grisly, gas-masked men awaited the charge of the police. The heavy odor of gas had cleared away now, and the rumble of speeding automobiles came to their ears distinctly. That meant reserves.
The Emperor of Death Page 3
