Mystery Of The Sea Horse

by Lee Falk

  There were three other guests. They arrived together later in the day. A small, very pretty red- haired girl, a man who had something to do with communications and the blond, close-cropped young man who had talked to Diana about football at her Uncle Dave's party.

  By the time lunch was over, the fog had burned off. Danton suggested tennis. There was a bright, new-looking clay court behind his vast house.

  First Danton played against the communications man and beat him quickly. Then Diana had a modest set with the red-haired girl, whose name was Laura something. After that, Danton suggested doubles, but Diana was beginning to feel cold. She left the rest of them at the tennis court and went back to the house for a sweater.

  A long high corridor cut through the length of the house. The walls were painted a stark white. A half-dozen large flower still lifes failed to brighten the long hall; the afternoon sunlight was unable to warm it.

  As Diana walked toward the staircase, she noticed that the door of the library was open. She had never been able to cure herself of the browsing habit acquired when she was a child back in Clarksville. She decided to make a quick survey of Danton's book collection.

  The sea-horse motif recurred in the library, too. A heavy lamp sitting on the round marble coffee table had a bronze sea horse as a base and around the walls, at a height of about seven feet, were five wall lamps with black-metal sea horses worked into their designs.

  Hands clasped behind her back, the dark-haired girl wandered around the room. The fireplace was large and clean, looking as though it had never been put to use.

  After a few moments of exploring, Diana spotted a row of travel books high up one wall. Among them was a title unfamiliar to her, Bangalla: Modem Mystery Land. She couldn't quite reach the book, so Diana pushed a footstool over against the wall. Stepping on it, and stretching, she was able to reach the book. She stretched a little too far though, and lost her balance.

  Grabbing out as she felt herself falling, Diana caught hold of one of the sea-horse wall brackets with her free hand. The bracket made a grating noise, snapped downward. As her feet touched the floor and she let go, the section of the bookcase swung inward.

  "A romantic touch," she thought, peering into the opening. "I wonder why Chris had this built into his house."

  Beyond the threshold was a stone floor. Diana crossed over, narrowing her eyes in the dim light. It was much cooler on the other side. Ahead was a passageway slanting downward. Far off in the dimness, faint light showed, glowing up from someplace below.

  The travel book still in her hand, she took a few steps ahead.

  Then she heard the sound of talking.

  "It's going to have to sit a few more days," said a man with a nasal twang in his voice.

  "Why? We've waited long enough." The other

  voice she recognized. It was the close-cropped blond young man.

  "He says we wait. He says it's a time for caution."

  "With more coming in from down there? I should think he—"

  "Tell him. Don't tell me."

  Very carefully, Diana began backing away from the light and talk. Suddenly she bumped into a stone wall on her right. The book was knocked from her hand.

  It went spinning toward the floor, scattering a handful of newspaper clippings which had been pressed between the leaves. J ,

  Diana held her breath when the book slapped onto the stone floor.

  The men down below went on talking.

  She knelt, feeling around for the scattered clippings. In a moment she believed she'd retrieved them all. Stuffing them back into the book, she left the stone corridor.

  There was still no one out in the library. "The sea horse should close it up again," she said to herself.

  Climbing, more carefully this time, back on the stool, she shoved the bracket back to its upright position. The wall and the crowded shelves swung back to their original position. Diana returned the Bangalla book to its place and left the library.

  She made up her mind not to say anything to Danton about what she'd seen or heard on the other side of the wall.

  CHAPTER THREE

  A dusty weekend silence filled the long pale- green corridors of the government office building. Afternoon sunlight came in the windows at the ends of the hallways, making broad stripes of light across the shadows.

  In one small office in the quiet building, two men were sitting. They were both average-looking, both in their middle forties.

  "Another fine day," said one of them. He was seated at a gray-metal desk, with one foot resting on the pulled-out bottom drawer. His name was Marcus.

  "That bothers you, doesn't it?" The other man was leaning back in a chair against one pale-green wall. His name was Busino and his hair was beginning to thin on each side of his widow's peak.

  Marcus said, "I'm not used to life out here. Santa Barbara spooks me, with all this good weather. It's not like back in New Jersey where nature keeps surprising you. You know, three nice days and then—wham!—a thunder storm."

  "I hear they got something called the Santana or Santa Ana," said Busino. "Some kind of big wind that blows the hell out of everything and starts all kinds of brush fires around this time of year."

  "I'll look forward to that." Marcus shoved back from the gray desk. At one of the office's two narrow windows he stopped. 'You can almost see the Pacific from here." "What's the Coast Guard say?"

  "The Sea Horse should be back tomorrow." Marcus fished a half-full pack of menthol cigarettes out of his pants pocket.

  "Think it's worth a search?"

  Squeezing out a cigarette from the seagreen pack, Marcus replied, "We've done that twice already and come up with a big zero."

  "Can I borrow one?"

  "I thought you quit."

  Busino rubbed at his bald spot. "I feel like just one once in a while."

  Marcus tossed him the pack. "Damn it," he said. "We know Danton is in on this business."

  "We suspect he is," corrected Busino.

  "You suspect; I know." He stuck a cigarette between his lips, turning his back on the window. "And we can never find a damn thing on that fancy yacht of his."

  "So maybe let's forget the boat and concentrate on the island," suggested Busino. "He could be stashing it there."

  "The local boys tried that," reminded Marcus, "and came up with zilch."

  Busino lit his cigarette with a match ripped-out of a paper folder. "Well, then we just keep watching Danton and we keep hitting him with searches. Sooner or later well get something."

  "And meanwhile he keeps bringing millions of bucks worth of the stuff up from Mexico." Back at the desk Marcus poked at a scatter of papers. "Did you ever run into Dave Palmer back East?"

  "Know his name, used to be police commissioner someplace. Why?"

  "He's staying out here in Santa Barbara this summer," said Marcus. "His niece is out here on a vacation, too."

  "So?"

  "She's been seen all around town with Chris Danton."

  Busino shrugged. "He's not a bad-looking guy, and women like him. He's got a yacht."

  "I don't think Palmer knows what kind of guy Danton is," said Marcus. "Maybe we ought to have a talk with him."

  "Be better," said Busino, "to have a talk with his niece. She might know something. What's her name?"

  Marcus consulted a slip of paper. "Diana Palmer. Right now she's among the house guests out on Danton's island."

  "That's the way to live." Busino sighed out smoke. "Well, let's talk to her soon as she gets back from San Obito."

  "Yeah, we'll do that," agreed Marcus.

  Close to the bright ocean, on the edge of a ribbon of beach, stood a brand-new "pancake house," all glass and simulated redwood beams. It was one of the Bo Beep chain. At a booth in the back of the place, out of sight of the many windows, two other men sat discussing Chris Danton.

  The one who called himself Anderson was about forty, a calm, peaceful-looking man with straight light hair and tortoise-shell dark glas
ses. He wore a candy-stripe shirt and bellbottom denims. Stirring his own sugar substitute into his coffee, he said, "I tell you it's him."

  Across from him the man calling himself Ful- mer shook his head. He was heavyset, less casually dressed. "We're not absolutely certain yet."

  Anderson smiled. His dark glasses hid his eyes completely. "There's such a thing as being too cautious." "I don't want any more mistakes, or any more . . . what you call 'accident.'"

  "You should recall that you agreed about the man in Chicago."

  "To my regret, yes." Fulmer held his glass of orange juice with both hands.

  "I don't see that it's really that important," said Anderson, the smile still on his calm face.

  "Killing a man," replied Fulmer in a low voice, "has to be important."

  "So you say." He sipped his coffee. "God, I miss sugar."

  Fulmer reflected, 'It seems to me Danton is possibly too young to be our man." ,

  "He's nearly sixty."

  "No, we haven't established that."

  Anderson took another sip of coffee before speaking. "We have established that Danton spent six months in 1967 at a sanitarium in Sao Paulo, Brazil."

  "I'm not certain we've established that," said Fulmer. "Though it seems likely."

  "The late Dr. Lemos, who ran the place in Sao Paulo, was recognized for his rejuvenation therapy. Recognized, that is, by the select few who could afford him. After some skillful surgery, and a few other medical tricks, our man came out looking ten years younger."

  "All right, it's possible," admitted Fulmer. "I grant you the death of Dr. Lemos quite soon after this man's release is suspicious."

  "He didn't want anyone talking," said Anderson. "He didn't realize we'd have other ways of getting at the information."

  "Other ways," murmured Fulmer. He picked up his glass to drink down the juice in one gulp.

  "Perhaps I'm unwilling to believe the trail has ended."

  "I assure you it has. Everything ties together this time. Why, even Interpol has contributed useful information."

  "That material you were able to . . . borrow," Fulmer pointed out, "concluded Danton was not the man we seek."

  "Interpol fails from time to time. My more thorough rechecking of some of their leads showed how Danton had been able to fool them."

  Shaking his head, Fulmer said, "One thing which bothers me about you is your eagerness. You're too anxious to have Danton be the man we want."

  Anderson smiled his calm smile. "Anxiety never enters into it. This is my job, my profession, and I do it well. That's all."

  "Still, we have to be absolutely certain."

  "Well, then, let's talk to Danton himself." He smiled more broadly. "It's really simple to get the truth out of a man, any man—even one such as he."

  "It isn't simple, however, to get at him. He's usually out on the island, with guards, and dogs roaming loose at night. When he's in Santa Barbara there's usually a bodyguard somewhere in the background. I'm surprised that the girl he's courting hasn't noticed."

  "Ah, the girl." Anderson removed his dark glasses to rub at his small blue eyes. "We might be able to use her."

  "Diana Palmer? How?"

  "Sometimes I think you're merely feigning innocence," Anderson told him. "If we had the girl in our possession and at a certain fixed point . . .

  then it might be possible to lure friend Danton to that point."

  "Yes, it might be," said Fulmer. "She's out on llial island with him right now, though."

  "We can wait until she comes back." Anderson summoned their waitress, who was dressed like Bo peep, to refill his coffee cup.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  The sleek black Alfa Romeo coupe hummed along the coastal highway. Twilight was giving way to night and the Sunday traffic had thinned considerably for the moment. A fragile white mist was starting to roll in from the direction of the ocean, spinning across the broad highway and dancing in the glare of the headlights.

  The man at the wheel was alone in the low black sports car. He was wearing dark glasses and a belted raincoat. A good-looking broad-shouldered man. For the past three weeks, he had been in San Francisco, looking for a certain man. He had found him. The hunt had begun on the other side of the world in Bangalla; now it was over.

  The Phantom took one hand off the steering wheel to turn on the windshield wipers. The fog was speckling the glass.

  "It'll be good to see Diana again," he said to himself. "For a while anyway." Soon again he would have to return to Bangalla—to the Deep Woods.

  The glistening black car drove on, knifing through the thickening fog. More and more cars appeared on the road as night came on and progress became slower. Eventually there were lights all around, glowing through the mist. Lights and shaggy palm trees and low tile-roofed buildings.

  "Last stop, Santa Barbara," said the Phantom.

  He guided the sports car up into the hills. He'

  glanced at a map earlier in the day and was able to find Dave Palmer's house easily.

  The Phantom parked the Alfa across the street from the big house. Fog seemed to enclose him as he slid out of the car, muffling him in silence.

  Uncle Dave opened the heavy oaken front door few seconds after the chimes sounded. "Why it's the . . . it's Mr. Walker," he said, smiling. "Come on in, come in."

  In the Deep Woods they called the Phantom The Ghost Who Walks. When he moved among other people he called himself Walker. "You look a little uneasy, Dave. Is Diana here?"

  "No, she's not," said the girl's uncle. "Which is the reason I'm a little jumpy, I guess. Here, sit down. Can I take your coat?"

  "I'll keep it on." The Phantom sat in the indicated chair, a big black-leather one in the center of the living room.

  Pacing along the border of the rug, Uncle Dave said, "Really there's nothing to be edgy about, but—oh, by the way, what are you doing in California? Diana didn't say any—"

  "I didn't know how long it might take me to do what I had to do," replied the Phantom. "So I didn't tell her in advance."

  "How'd you know she was here?"

  "Diana writes often. And I see to it the letters reach me, no matter where I am."

  "I still think you two ought—"

  "You were going to tell me where she is," the Phantom reminded him.

  "Well, yes. She's still out on that darn island, I guess."

  "Island?"

  "One of the Channel Islands," explained the old

  man. "A private one called San Obito, owned by a fellow name of Danton."

  "That wouldn't be Chris Danton, would it?".

  "Sure would. You know him?"

  Shaking his head, the Phantom said, "No, I only heard his name in another connection recently, up in San Francisco."

  "Well, he seems to be a nice-enough guy. I've gotten to know him since I've been staying here in Santa Barbara," said Uncle Dave. "Anyway, he asked Diana and some other people over to his place for the weekend. And she went."

  The Phantom asked, "But she was supposed to be back before now, is that it?"

  "More or less." Dave Palmer put his hands in the pockets of his plaid pants. "See, I got a call this afternoon. Not from Diana but from some girl who said she'd been out on the island with her. This girl said Diana would be staying on another day or so."

  "Why didn't Diana call you herself?"

  "According to this girl, Danton's having trouble with the phone system that links him with the mainland," replied Uncle Dave. "So Diana asked her to call me when she got back home." He sat for a moment on the edge of a black-leather sofa, then rose to pace again. "I don't know, I just had a feeling something wasn't quite right. During my years in the police department, I got the habit of listening to hunches. So I decided to phone Diana myself."

  "What happened?"

  "Nothing. Danton's number rang and rang," said the old man. "I checked with the phone com- j pany and they say they've got no report of trouble J on his lines. Of course, I imagine he's got some l kind o
f complicated private setup and perhaps—"

  "San Obito Island, you said?" The Phantom

  stood.

  Right." Uncle Dave gave him the exact locationof Chris Danton's island. "Maybe there's nothing wrong. After all, Di's grown up and if she

  wants to—"

  The Phantom put his hand onto the old man's shoulder. "It won't hurt to pay attention to your hunch." He moved into the hall.

  What do you figure on doing?" Uncle Dave called after him.

  The front door opened and closed and the Phantom was gone.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  The day before, everyone had still been there on the island.

  At sunset, the mist returned, dropping down in great puffs out of the gradually darkening sky.

  Laura, the red-haired girl, hugged herself and gave an exaggerated shudder. "What would you say to a motion to go inside?"

  They had been sitting around a vast flagstone patio at the rear of the house, drinking cocktails and talking. All except Danton himself, who'd been absent since after the tennis session.

  The wife of the thin man—their name was Baylor—said, "How about you, Miss Palmer? We long-time California sufferers are used to these bleak night fogs."

  Diana smiled. "I can see goose bumps popping out all over poor Laura," she said, rising from her canvas chair. "Let's go in."

  "Fog always makes me feel very odd." Laura started for the French windows. "Like I'm stuck under a wharf, or down in a submarine."

  "You have a very vivid way of describing things," Mr. Baylor said to her. "Are you in some creative field?"

  "No." The red-haired girl opened the glass doo and stepped into the large drawing room.

  "Oh, what sort of—?" Baylor followed her into the mansion.

  Diana bent to retrieve her empty glass from the stones.

  My husband is very interested in creative people." Mrs. Baylor said. "Especially cute little redhaired ones."

  The close-cropped blond young man trotted around them to hold the French window open. Allow me, ladies." His name was Chuck Piper.

  A tall silent man in a dark suit was standing in