“Yet, Havens,” went on the icy voice of Hesterberg, “there is yet one thing I want. The Phantom still has some fragments of papers that I need. I can do without them, but they will facilitate my purpose. You will get them from him. You will deliver them to my man who will shortly call on you. If you do this, your daughter shall he returned safely. If you refuse, she shall suffer as no woman has ever suffered.
“In a short time my most trusted man shall call on you. It is useless to attempt to get information from him. He is my best man, and for that reason I have given him this assignment. You may capture him, kill him if you will, but he will tell you nothing. If I have not heard from him within a reasonable length of time, I shall assume you have trapped him, and I shall treat your daughter accordingly. Havens! Have you heard me?”
Something clicked in the speaker, then there was silence. The most bitter and awful silence that Van had ever known. Disaster and defeat were imminent. He had failed in the most important mission that had ever been intrusted to him. Hesterberg, the Mad Red, had won!
Havens turned dull glazed eyes to Van. He was in the grip of a terrible emotion. Here he sat, helpless and supine, with his motherless daughter in the grip of a maniac, God only knew where.
“You can’t do anything, Van,” he said dully, despairingly.
To Van his words were nothing less than an accusation. He flushed, bit his lip and said nothing. Never had he known such a sensation of futility. Despair deluged him. Even his fighting heart, which never before admitted defeat, beat dully in his breast; and as he gazed at the agonized face of his friend he felt as if he had betrayed him, as if the fact that Muriel was in peril was solely his fault.
But after a few minutes the natural driving courage within him asserted itself. His brain cast itself about for a means of yet saving the battle, of outwitting Hesterberg.
Then he realized that there was but one answer. He must first find out where Hesterberg had mobilized his army of murder.
There existed but a single chance to do that. The Mad Red’s man was coming here to get the papers which Hesterberg wanted. That man would have the information that Van wanted. True, Hesterberg had warned them that this man was the pick of his motley crew, a man of courage who would not talk, a man selected for his fortitude and loyalty. Yet it was the only chance. Van must make him talk!
He rose from his chair with his jaw set. His face was a terrible thing to behold. Dick Van Loan had made up his mind that no matter what torture, what lengths he must resort to, Hesterberg’s emissary would talk. That was the only conceivable thing that would save the civilization that the crazy Communist had set out to wreck.
Then, again, there was Muriel.
Van liked the girl more than he would have cared to admit. Perhaps if he had not been the Phantom she might have been more to him than merely the daughter of his best friend. But, as it was, he had no right to declare himself to any woman. Not while he engaged in this dangerous business which was meat and drink to him. His heart was heavy at the thought, but that only stiffened the terrible resolution that he had made.
Havens started at the jangle of the doorbell. He glanced inquiringly, hopelessly at Van. Then, as he saw the other’s firm jaw, his purposeful eyes, his set shoulders, an inexplicable new faith was engendered within his heart.
“What are we going to do?” he asked.
Van Loan took a black silk mask from his pocket and fitted it to his eyes.
“Do?” he said, and there was a murderous resolve in his voice. “Do? We’re going to make this gentleman talk.”
“How?”
“That I don’t know. But talk he will if I have to break every bone in his body. If I have to tear him slowly limb from limb. Send your servants to bed and bring him in.”
Havens rose slowly. He stared strangely at Van. Never had he seen him in such a mood; never had he seen those black snapping eyes of the Phantom so determined, so awful, bent on wreaking a terrible vengeance on his enemies.
Without another word, Havens turned and left the room. Van stood on the threshold of the library. He heard the publisher dismiss his butler. Then he heard the sound of the front door being unlocked. He started as he heard Havens give vent to a startled expression. Then he heard footsteps and a steady thumping noise approaching him from the hall.
As Havens reappeared there was an expression of panicky fear stamped indelibly upon his countenance. And Van, looking beyond him, immediately saw the reason for Havens’s newly born fear.
For the messenger of the Mad Red was Sligo, the cripple, with the eyes like diamonds glittering from a setting of mud!
This, then, was the man whom Hesterberg trusted most. This then, was the man that the Mad Red knew would not betray him. Van realized now that his hope of frustrating Hesterberg hung by a very slender thread. Then a thought struck him. Perhaps he could —
But he would wait. He would play that card last. Silently he closed the library door behind the pair of them. Havens seated himself in a chair, his eyes gazing vacantly at the wall. Sligo grinned sardonically. He knew the publisher was afraid to meet his snake-like gaze.
“Well,” said the cripple, “what are we waiting for?”
The Phantom put his hand in his pocket and walked slowly toward the cripple. His eyes glittered through the mask. Sligo shifted uneasily in his chair.
“Well,” he said again, “what about those papers? For the safety of everything involved, I’d suggest you give them to me at once.”
Van Loan came a step further. Havens stared at him, marveling at the deathly coldness of his manner. From his pocket he took a knife, a slim delicate thing with a three-inch blade, sharpened to nothingness.
As he moved nearer the cripple, the bridge lamp on the side of the room caught the blade, and the light glinted ominously, but the gleam in the Phantom’s eyes was no less cold and inclement than the light on the steel.
Van Loan grasped the cripple by the shoulder with his left hand. Their eyes met.
“I’m going to ask you some questions,” Van said. “You can either answer them or die slowly and painfully, just as you like. But you’ll do one or the other before you leave this room.”
There was hatred in Van’s heart; a hatred of his own that no one else could quite, understand. But there was another kind of murder in his eyes, an expression that no one could help understanding. Sligo well comprehended that this man was not threatening him idly. Yet he did not flinch.
“If you mean I’m to tell you anything about Hesterberg or his plans,” he said sullenly, “I’ll not do it.”
“No,” said Van.
He put his knee on the cripple’s chest. His left hand encircled the man’s neck. His right brought the knife close to the man’s eyes.
“Now, listen,” he said in a soft purring voice which belied the words he uttered. “When I was in Papua the natives had a grim form of amusement which used to entertain them very much. When they caught a white man against whom they harbored a grudge, they would cut off his eyelids. Now, before I start performing this operation on you, will you consider what that would do to your sleep? And it’s a shame to ruin such beautiful eyes as yours. Now, Sligo, will you talk?”
The Phantom brought the knife down close to the man’s eyes. The point gleamed like a lonely star and the cripple stared at it, mute and expressionless. Behind Van, Havens stood transfixed, like a man of ice.
“Do you talk?” said Van.
The cripple didn’t answer. Instead his jeweled eyes stared straight ahead into Van’s. The knife seemed to stick to his hand. His arm seemed suddenly heavy. A faint glaze came over his eyes. He could feel his pulse pounding, and the vein in his throat throbbed. He blinked. Then decided that this whole thing was ridiculous. Why should he worry about Hesterberg? All he wanted to do was sleep — to go to bed. God, he was tired!
But before his body moved itself away from Sligo, his brain fought against the dizziness that was upon him, and gave him a warning.
�
�You fool!” something seemed to shout into his consciousness at a great distance. “He’s hypnotizing you. Fight! Fight or you’re lost.”
Van shook his head savagely, as if the mere physical gesture would throw off the daze that insidiously crept over him. His eyes met those of the cripple and held. Havens stood breathless behind Van and watched the strangest battle that was ever fought between two men.
It was literally a battle of intellects. Van Loan was no novice in the arts of hypnosis, and Sligo was a past master. The room was pregnant with silence, broken only by the hissing sounds of men breathing jerkily, tensely, as they struggled for the dominance of their own minds.
CHAPTER XVII
THE PHANTOM TAKES THE TRAIL
NO ONE in that room knew how long the struggle lasted. The gray ghostly fingers of dawn reached up over the eastern horizon and put the night to flight. The clock on the mantel ticked away the minutes, the hours, and still three men remained motionless. Two of them locked in a mental struggle that must end the career of one. And in the background the third man watched, knowing that should the cripple win, his own life would hang in the balance.
The battle swayed first one way, then the other. At times Van would feel those glittering eyes of Sligo boring into his. He would feel weak as if he must pay homage to the other’s will. Then he would rally. The power of the cripple’s mind became less and Van knew that his own will was asserting itself on the other.
Sweat dripped from his face. His eyes glazed with the strain and there was a terrible pounding in his head. Then came the moment that he instinctively knew was the crisis.
Sligo was tiring. He half raised his head. His eyes were bloodshot. He fixed Van’s pupils with a malevolent gaze. He staked all on this one moment — and he nearly succeeded.
A terrible lethargy came over Van. Desperately he fought with every ounce of his will power, with every bit of his mentality. Sligo’s face was distorted with hate and rage. Now that he had exerted every trick he had, he panted. Then he issued an order, in a final frantic hope that he had subjected Van’s will, that he had the Phantom under the influence of his own mind.
“You are in my power,” he gasped. “My first order is you release me.”
Despite the agony, the weariness that was upon him, Van grinned. When he spoke his own voice seemed to come from a great distance.
“The hell I am,” he said. “On the contrary —”
Sligo, his attempt failing, dropped his head back in his chair. Desperately he tried to avoid Van’s eyes, but the two black pupils transfixed him through the silk mask. The glittering eyes of the cripple suddenly lost their animation, their brilliance. A glaze came over them. Sligo relaxed in his chair.
Then and only then did Van release him. He stood up and turned to Havens.
“Thank God,” he said, “we’ve got him.”
Outside it was broad daylight. The clock on the mantel indicated that it was after nine o’clock. Havens breathed a sigh of relief.
“Now, what do we do?” he asked.
“Now it’s easy,” said Van. “Listen.”
He walked back to the cripple and fixed him once again with his eyes.
“Sligo,” he said, “you will answer whatever questions I put to you. I am your master. Do you understand?”
The cripple nodded his head slightly. “Yes, Master,” he said in a dull far-away tone.
“Good. Now where is Hesterberg?”
Havens leaned forward eagerly to catch the answer. Sligo hesitated a moment, then replied:
“At Edgetown.”
“Who is with him?”
“Everyone in the gang, and the men he is holding as hostages.”
“Is it possible for an enemy to get inside the town?”
“Possible, but dangerous. It is well guarded. However, at night it could be done.”
Van turned to Havens and nodded. Sligo slumped forward in his chair. Physical exhaustion had taken hold of the cripple. Van sprang forward and jerked him roughly by the arm. This was Van’s chance to get the answer to a question that had completely baffled him.
“Wait, Sligo,” he said. “There’s one thing more.”
The cripple sat up with an effort.
“Yes, Master.”
“How did Bursage die?”
“The afternoon of his death, I visited him in a wheel chair. I had been wounded the night before. On a pretext I saw him. I hypnotized him into getting himself a dagger and stabbing himself at midnight.”
But Sligo never spoke again. The tremendous struggle had snapped the thin thread which held his evil life together. He slumped forward in his chair, and Van’s finger on his wrist felt no answering pulse beat.
Havens gripped Van’s arm excitedly. He opened his mouth to speak but before he could frame his words the telephone jangled imperiously. Instinctively Havens reached for it but Van placed a restraining hand on his arm.
“I’ll take it,” he said, picking up the receiver.
“Long distance,” said the operator, “Millville calling.”
Van put a hand over the receiver. “Millville calling,” he repeated. “That’s about fifteen miles from Edgetown.” He removed his hand. “Put the call through.”
A moment later a harsh masculine voice came to his ear.
“Hello, Havens? I’m calling for Hesterberg. Has our man got there yet? If so, why hasn’t he left. Why hasn’t he reported?”
Van’s brain raced faster than light itself.
“Oh, yes,” he said. “He’s here now. I’ll let him talk to you.”
“Okay. Put Sligo on.”
Van placed the receiver on the desk. He walked three paces away from the phone, then he turned and walked three paces back again. He picked up the phone and said in a very fair imitation of the cripple’s voice:
“Hello! This is Sligo.”
“Well?” said the harsh voice inquiringly.
“The trouble is this,” said Van. “They’re quitting all right. They’ll give me the papers, but they’re in a vault uptown. I can’t possibly get them till about ten o’clock. Then I want a chance to rest. I’ve had a tough time here. I’ll be at Headquarters tonight.”
“Okay,” said the voice. “As long as we know you’re all right. Good luck.”
“Good-by,” said Van, hanging up the receiver.
“Who was it?” demanded Havens excitedly. “Hesterberg?”
“No. One of his men. I’ve convinced him Sligo’s all right. I’ve also convinced him that the Phantom’s through with the case. That ought to hold him till tonight.”
“And now,” said Havens anxiously, “what do we do?”
“First,” said Van, “we rest. Then I shall go to Edgetown disguised as Sligo. I shall go by night. I must rest first, because tonight will tell the story. Either I die and Hesterberg succeeds in his plans, or Hesterberg dies himself.”
“Shall I come? I want to be there. Muriel may need me.”
Van threw a fraternal arm about his friend’s shoulders and shook his head.
“No,” he said, “you stay here. I must play a lone hand. If you have not heard from me by midnight, call the governor. Explain the situation to him. Have him send help, militia if need be. Hesterberg probably has enough men to warrant his calling them out.
“In the meantime, I shall try to foil him. I shall try to prevent his emissaries from slipping through. His men must be stopped from getting to Europe. His money drafts to Russia must be stopped. If I can prevent that by guile so much the better. If not, we must try force. Don’t forget, give me until ten o’clock, then send help. Stand by the radio. It’s apparently the only way I can communicate with you from Edgetown. Good-by.”
He stretched forth his hand. Havens grasped it firmly.
“Good-by, Van,” he said. “If anyone can do it, you can. And if” — he hesitated for a moment — “if we don’t see each other again, I’ll never forget what you’ve done.”
Van was visibly moved by the other’s words
. He took the mask from his face, wrung Havens’s hand heartily, silently, afraid to trust his voice. Then, turning on his heel, he left the room and took a taxi to his own apartments.
Knowing the secret of complete relaxation, Van lay at full length on his bed. His eyes were shut, but his tired brain was still functioning. He reviewed the information that he had obtained from Sligo and considered the best method of using it.
The story of Bursage’s killing cleared up that angle. Van smiled a trifle ruefully as he realized that the explanation was one that he should have hit upon himself. However, it was no use wasting thought on the past, when the future loomed so menacingly ahead.
Of course, it had occurred to him simply to have the authorities despatch a young army to Edgetown to wipe out the murderous throng who rallied to the Mad Red’s banner. But that was not as easy as it sounded.
After all, Hesterberg had under his control in his safe-keeping half a dozen of the most influential men in America. Van knew full well that he would have not the slightest hesitation in slaughtering those men in cold blood if it were expedient to do so. Then, too, there was Muriel. For a moment as Van thought of the girl, helpless in the clutches of the maniac, his blood ran cold.
No, first he must go to Edgetown himself. Perhaps he could devise some way of saving the hostages with which Hesterberg planned to foist his will upon the world. If he failed, well, then the troops could take care of the situation. At least they could capture the Russian, even though Van and the others had first been put to death by the former’s hand.
Then, too, there was the matter of stopping Hesterberg’s messengers. Even though their master should be captured, the documents which they carried could still do their dreaded work. War would ride roughshod over civilization, with the other three horsemen of the Apocalypse galloping grimly in his wake.
Banks would extend the Soviet credit on the cables which were sent by the families of the captured men. And then, again, there was Muriel.
Now, Dick Van Loan had of his own volition eschewed romance for excitement. He had sacrificed his chance at the normal happiness of life for a vivid live-or-die existence. Never would he marry any girl. It would have been too unfair. Yet, now that he realized for the first time the depth of his feeling for Muriel, he felt sick and wretched as he thought of her in alien hands.
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