Phantom Detective - Black Ball of Death

by Robert Wallace

  “You’re right, Phantom.” For the first time Pennell seemed worried. “Of course Barker is lying. He killed the old doctor, but I’d have a hard time proving that.” Pennell looked anxiously at the Phantom. “Maybe you could find a way of giving me a break if we talked this thing over.”

  “That might be possible,” the Phantom said thoughtfully. “At least I can consider it.”

  He felt that if he could actually get Pennell to talk — to reveal the name of the man that the Phantom was sure was the brains of the whole colossal confidence game it would save a lot of time and effort, and bring the case to a close in a hurry.

  “Good,” said Pennell.“Let’s go in Sunderland’s private office and talk this over in comfort.”

  Without even waiting for the Phantom to agree, Bernie Pennell turned and headed for Sunderland’s private office. The Phantom followed, the gun still in his hand. Pennell stepped in through the open doorway and switched on the lights. He walked over to the desk and seated himself behind it. Then he pushed back the gray hat on his dark hair and smiled at the Phantom.

  “Sit down,” Pennell said, nodding toward a comfortable looking chair near the desk. “Since I judge you expect me to do a lot of talking it’s going to take some time.”

  “That’s right,” said the Phantom as he dropped into the chair. “And we might as well start by your telling me the name of your boss.”

  In his estimation Pennell had grown too sure of himself, and the Phantom didn’t like it. That Pennell was so willing to talk, to reveal all he knew, didn’t seem at all in keeping with the man’s character. There was something decidedly false about this whole setup.

  The Phantom’s keen brain worked swiftly, seeking some hidden trap. He was sure Pennell had not the slightest intention of revealing the name of the man higher up, but there must be some reason for his pretending to be so willing to do so.

  There was no doubt that Pennell was quite familiar with all of the Sunderland Model Agency. The way he had found the light switch of Sunderland’s private office in the dark without even bothering to look for it was proof enough of that. The talk of his having entered by using a skeleton key was just a stall, the Phantom was sure of that now.

  “So you want me to tell the name of my boss,” said Pennell, his hands resting on the glass top of the ornate desk. “All right He is —”

  Abruptly the lights in the office went out. An instant later the Phantom found himself momentarily blinded by a bright spotlight that cast its white glare straight into his eyes. He leaped to his feet, raising the gun and trying to see Pennell beyond the light; but he was too late. Something hard crashed down on his head with brutal force. The bright light vanished into darkness as he slumped back into the chair unconscious.

  The Phantom was never quite certain as to just how much time elapsed before he finally regained his senses and opened his eyes. His first feeling was of cool air blowing against him, and being somewhere in limitless space. He seemed to be swaying back and forth, and at first he thought the feeling was caused by the dizziness from the blow that knocked him out.

  His right arm was raised high above his head, and it felt like something at the other end of it was trying to pull it out of the socket. His right wrist hurt and seemed caught in a steel clamp.

  Horror swept over him as he realized that he was dangling at the end of a rope tied around his right wrist. The other end of the rope was evidently fastened to something inside a window in Sunderland’s office, and the Phantom hung there in space fifteen stories above the ground.

  He reached up, trying to grab the rope with his free hand and relieve the pressure on his right wrist. Twice he tried and failed, and then he succeeded in grabbing the rope, and holding on. That took some of the pressure off his right arm, though the rope still hurt where it had cut into the flesh of his right wrist.

  The Phantom looked down. The ground seemed very far away. The windows on this side of the tall building faced out onto a court at the bottom of a setback. All around him they were dark, and there was little chance of his being seen.

  He wondered why Bernie Pennell had gone to all the trouble of leaving him dangling out there instead of killing him while he was unconscious. Then he remembered how anxious Pennell had been to establish an alibi for the murder of the Phantom that was supposed to have taken place at Dr. Winterly’s cottage. Doubtlessly Pennell had planned this with the same idea of an alibi in mind.

  The Phantom glanced up as he felt the rope give a little. He saw that the metal frame of the lower part of the window had been shoved down on the rope. His weight, and the way he swayed back and forth was gradually sawing the rope against the sharp edge of the window frame. Eventually, the rope would part; and the Phantom would go hurtling down into space, unless he did something about it in a hurry.

  The first feeling of horror had left him now, to be replaced by the cool courage that was always part of the nature of the man who had proved such a dangerous foe to the perpetrators of crime. He thought swiftly, seeking some means of escape.

  A ledge running along the face of the building between the fifteenth and fourteenth floors caught his glance and held it. If he could just swing close enough he might manage to get his feet on that ledge, and since it was a little higher than where he was hanging now, it would take the pressure off the rope. He tried it, and the first time he came maddeningly close, and then swung away again. The second time he managed to get one foot on the ledge. He pulled himself up on the rope with his free hand, and a moment later he was perched precariously on the ledge. Above him the rope grew slack as it no longer supported his full weight.

  The Phantom gave a good hard tug on the rope. It broke at the window and came tumbling down, nearly pulling him off the ledge.

  “That was close!” he muttered. “Too close for comfort.”

  SINCE the other end of the rope was still in his grasp, he clung to it, hoping to find some way of using it to get off the ledge. He edged along until he found a spot near the corner of the building where the ledge grew wider.

  Here it jutted out nearly three feet, and he found that he could stand on it in comparative safety.

  He managed to untie the rope from his wrist. The wrist was raw and bleeding a little, and his right arm felt like it was longer than it had ever been before. He coiled up the rope and then peered down over the lip of the ledge. Below him was a window on the fourteenth floor that had been carelessly left open about four inches at the top.

  The Phantom estimated the distance from the ledge to the window below and decided it was more than five feet, though it was hard to judge accurately in the darkness of the night. He left the coil of rope lying on the ledge and then lowered himself over the edge until he was hanging there by his hands.

  His feet reached the middle of the window below, and he stood on the top of the metal sash. Then he released his grip on the ledge and slowly lowered his body. After that it was comparatively simple to climb in through the upper part of the window.

  The Phantom breathed a sigh of relief as he found himself in a deserted office. “If anyone should ask me, I’ve had enough of the great open spaces for one evening,” he decided.

  When he had fully recovered his breath, he wandered through the office. Then he used a telephone switchboard he found to call Frank Havens. After the Phantom told Havens what had happened, it was agreed that he would go to the publisher’s office at once and wait there until Chip Dorlan or Steve Huston had located the Texas millionaire they had been sent out to find.

  “Fine,” said the Phantom. “After what I have been through so far tonight I’d like nothing better than that. It sounds so peaceful!”

  CHAPTER XXI

  GETAWAY

  FRANK HAVENS leaned back in his chair as he sat at his desk in his huge private office in the Clarion building. The publisher made a steeple with his fingertips pressed together as he listened intently to the words of the man who lounged comfortably in a chair near the desk.

&nb
sp; “So you see the whole thing is a confidence game,” the Phantom said. “Built upon bigger stakes than usual, and the men involved don’t mind bloodshed to gain their ends. Bernie Pennell runs the gyp end of the deal. He gets into contact with the suckers, lines them up.”

  “But what are they using for bait?” Havens asked with a puzzled frown. “This is a rather modern world we live in these days, Van. People, especially wealthy people, don’t fall for a confidence game very easily.”

  “Of course not, but this one is done up brown. Toasted on both sides and served hot. The victims are carefully selected. They are told about a type of metal. I don’t know the full details of its nature yet, but it will be sensational.” The Phantom smiled. “That is, according to the sales talk.”

  “You mean they actually have something good?” de­manded Havens in surprise.

  “Certainly not! It’s a newly invented alloy that would be laughed at even by those who know nothing about metals. But the victims didn’t realize that — not after they have been taken to see Dr. Winterly, whom everyone knew as a respected and eminent scientist, and he had convinced them he had in­vented something great.”

  “He convinced them,” repeated Havens. “You don’t mean that Winterly actually went crooked?”

  “No, only senile. He was convinced that he’d actually created such an alloy, and when the victims were brought to him, he assured them it was on the level. The new product was called Formula Eight. I found sample ingots and some documentary evidence referring to it. That isn’t all — the victims were next taken out to a huge factory which the gang had actually leased. There, big furnaces were ready to operate, castings made, the whole works set up to begin manufacture of the alloy.”

  Havens whistled softly. “A genuine confidence man never did mind spending a dollar to make ten. That’s what has always distinguished him from other kinds of thieves. But — the expenses for all this must have been very large.”

  “So were the donations made by the suckers,” the Phantom declared dryly. “Arthur Arden was one of them to the tune of twenty thousand. But the crooks made a big mistake there. They didn’t know that Arden’s father maintained a home at Lake Candle where Dr. Winterly also lived. They didn’t realize that Arthur Arden would be in a position to observe Dr. Winterly and eventually see that he was a weak-brained, worn-out old man totally incapable of inventing anything, let alone metal which science has been seeking for years.”

  Havens nodded. “Then Arthur must have demanded his money back, and they had to kill him before he could broadcast what he knew and tip off all the other victims the gang had lined up. There’s your motive, of course.”

  “Yes, and Arthur did his best to issue a warning anyway. He knew he was going to be knifed. He managed to spill a little of the bronze powder on the floor for someone to find. He arranged it so that an eight ball would be found at his feet. He hoped someone would connect it with Formula Eight. That is what he was trying to tell us.”

  “And we were too stupid to recognize what Arthur meant!” Havens wagged his white head.

  “Not stupid, sir,” the Phantom said. “We didn’t have enough to go on, and even now Sheriff McCabe doesn’t recognize the significance of the eight ball. Arthur Arden hoped that we’d find samples of the metal in his New York apartment, but the murderer got there before me. Arthur Arden even talked in boastful riddles to Vicki Selden about the figure eight, and used an eight ball to demonstrate. Perhaps that is what made him leave an eight ball for a clue when he knew he was going to be killed.”

  Havens reached for the buzzing telephone, listened a moment, and then spoke. “All right, I’ll tell him,” he said and then hung up. He looked at the Phantom. “It was Steve. He and Chip Dorlan located your Texas millionaire at the Surrey Plaza. It seems Mr. Hoag is prepared to go home soon, and they are waiting for you at the hotel. What’s this all about, Phantom?”

  The Phantom arose. “Hoag is one of the victims. One of those they’ve worked on to take for a few thousand. I found his name at the factory. By operating through him, I may be able to land our man. Not Bernie Pennell, who makes the actual contacts and leaves me hanging out of windows, but the one who originally planned all this and used his own position to promote it.”

  Havens wished the Phantom luck, and with something akin to envy, watched him leave. It was often difficult for Havens merely to sit and listen to the Phantom’s reports. He wanted to take a more active part in the everlasting fight against criminals.

  THE Phantom met Steve Huston and Chip Dorlan at the hotel, then went with them to Douglas Hoag’s suite, and talked long and earnestly with the millionaire. When the Phantom had finished Hoag was enthusiastic about the whole idea.

  “So they were going to trim me, were they?” he chortled. “Guess I haven’t lost my business sense, because I figured that Pennell hombre as a crook the minute I laid eyes on him! I may have a lot of money, and I may have got it an easy way. I may like to spend it in night clubs and be seen with glamorous girls, but I’m no fool. I had ’em sized up right.”

  “What, exactly was the bait?” the Phantom asked, as though he didn’t know.

  Hoag grimaced, no longer amused. “A new metal, invented by Dr. Winterly, stronger, lighter, and much cheaper than steel. They showed some convincing samples, but I told them I wasn’t ready to deal with them yet, and refused to put up any cash.”

  “You were fortunate,” the Phantom said. “Apparently they intended to take you for plenty. Now, if you’ll call Bernard Pennell at the number he gave you, he’ll practically fly over here. Let him think you’ve changed your mind, and are ready to invest. He’ll have to work fast, before Dr. Winterly’s murder is made public. As soon as that happens; their plans are ended. They’ll do their best to make you the final sucker.”

  Hoag made his phone call, hung up, and laughed heartily. “He fell for it hook, line, and sinker,” Hoag said. “Pennell is coming right over.”

  “Fine,” said the Phantom. “Steve Huston and Chip Dorlan will take charge from here on. Steve, I want Pennell apparently to get away with it. But don’t lose him. I want to see to whom he’ll lead you.”

  He left Chip posted in the lobby while Steve, armed with a gun, concealed himself in Hoag’s apartment. The Phantom didn’t stay around to see the end of that phase of the case. He drove to a Fifth Avenue apartment house, rang Park Sun­derland’s apartment, and in a few moments was being admitted to the model agency owner’s quarter.

  Sunderland wore a blue dressing robe and had apparently been indulging in a highball before retiring. There was a smile on his handsome face as he greeted the Phantom in a friendly and courteous manner.

  “Glad to see you — come right in,” Sunderland said. “Vicki told me so much about this case that I’m highly interested.”

  He led the way into a tastefully furnished living room. “And of course, I’m delighted to be of help to the Phantom Detective. Will you have a drink?”

  “No, thanks.” The Phantom dropped into a chair as Sun­derland seated himself opposite him. His manner was casual, and quite at ease. I’m here about Hugh Royal. I couldn’t ask you too much in front of Vicki, but I have reason to believe that Royal may be involved in this case. Can you help me there?”

  “Hugh Royal?” An expression of amazement swept over Sunderland’s face. “Are you sure, Phantom? Royal always seemed like a quiet, decent chap to me. What makes you suspect him?”

  “I set a trap,” the Phantom said. “And Hugh Royal walked right into it. His mere presence at the place I named was enough to convict him, though he claimed you had phoned to meet him there and then phoned again and canceled the date.”

  Sunderland frowned, and reached for the half finished high ball sitting on a table close to his chair. He took a sip before he spoke again. “Of course that’s untrue, I didn’t phone him at all.”

  “His story didn’t sound very convincing,” said the Phantom.

  “I’m glad of that,” said Sunderland.
“But I’m getting a new slant on Mr. Royal. I don’t like his involving me in this matter, Phantom. I might also add that he’s been endeavoring to see too much of Vicki.”

  “But you know little about him?”

  “Practically nothing. What of this man you spoke to me and Vicki about? Some crook you’d captured. Doesn’t he know Hugh Royal?”

  “He hasn’t talked yet,” the Phantom admitted. “Of course, he will. We have no doubts about that, especially since he seems to have been left to take the blame alone. Frankly, I’m afraid I’m just wasting your time, Mr. Sunderland. I was hoping you might have been quite friendly with Royal and could provide some sort of a lead.”

  “Afraid I can’t help you much on that.” Sunderland put his glass back down on the table. “I’d like to do it, of course, but I simply don’t know enough about Hugh Royal.”

  The ringing of the phone at the other end of the room was loud and insistent in a little moment of silence. Sunderland rose and went toward the phone.

  “Excuse me, please,” he said.

  He picked up the phone, listened a moment, and then talked in such a low tone that even the Phantom’s keen ears could not distinguish the words. Then Sunderland hung up and came back to his chair, a thoughtful expression on his face.

  “That was Hugh Royal,” he said slowly, as he sank down into the chair. “Judging from the way he spoke, he was excited and in a hurry. He asked me not to mention his name if anyone was here. He said he was leaving as soon as possible on an urgent business trip. He wanted to know if Vicki was here or where he could locate her.”

  “You told him where to find her?” the Phantom snapped.

  “Naturally.” Sunderland looked surprised. “Why not? After all they are good friends.”

  “Don’t be so sure of that!” The Phantom got up quickly, his eyes fixed on Sunderland’s face. “If Vicki wanted Hugh Royal to know where she is now, she would have told him herself. I’m afraid you made a bad mistake in giving Royal her address, Sunderland.”