The Black Ball Of Death

CHAPTER XII

BEFORE the door had swung shut, the Phantom was on a knee beside the recumbent figure. The blood had gushed from a cut over the man’s left ear. It had trickled across the wooden floor, and the smear on the hall rug had come from a heel that had stepped in it.

The Phantom felt a wave of relief. Under the fingers he pressed over the large neck artery, a strong pulse beat. The man had been knocked out temporarily. Even as the Phantom knelt beside him, he could see the tug of his eyelids trying to open.

There was a bathroom adjoining the studio. The Phantom soaked a towel in cold water. He washed the head cut, made a compress of wet towel and laid it over the man’s face, then raised him and carried him over to a couch.

In another minute or two, during which the Phantom put into practice his knowledge of first aid, Hugh Royal showed signs of coming out of it. He choked, deep in his throat. Then he moved his arms and legs, and his eyes opened wide. Royal peered up at the unfamiliar face above him.

“Hey, what’s the idea? Who are you?”

“Take it easy, Royal” The Phantom pulled a chair around beside the couch. “I stopped in to see you on business. No one answered my ring, so I came in. You were over there, decorating the floor. Better let me get you a drink.”

Royal sat up, gingerly exploring the left side of his head with a cautious finger. “I wish you would. Bottle in the closet yonder. Glass in the bathroom.”

He took the bourbon straight. Color began to come back to his good-looking face. Glancing up at the Phantom he smiled wryly.

“I don’t know who you are, but you picked the right time to drop around. Thanks. I’m okay now.”

Quickly, the Phantom introduced himself, using the name of Gray and showing his badge. Royal, a man in the late twenties, listened without comment. When the Phantom finished, and asked him what had happened, Royal said, “My front doorbell rang. I was working on a picture – from a photograph. I opened the door, and a man came in. Funny looking guy. He had a -”

“Twisted ear?”

Royal stared. “That’s right! How did you know?”

“Just a guess. Go on. What did he want?”

“Information.”

“Concerning,” the Phantom said dryly, “a Miss Victoria Selden?”

Royal stared at him again, blankly. “Looks as if you know all the answers. Yes, he wanted to know where he could get in touch with Vicki. Said it was of the utmost importance. I don’t hand out my models’ addresses to anyone who drops in. I told him as much, and he got tough. Told me to give it or else -”

“So you took the ‘or else.’ ”

“It looked like a blackjack. I saw it coming, and tried to duck. After that the birds sang until I opened my eyes and saw you.”

The Phantom nodded. With narrowed eyes he glanced around the studio. So Len had been there – Len with a sap up his sleeve. Len trying to tab Vicki Selden, too.

To the Phantom, the fact was significant. Pennell – or the one he worked for – must have known about the blonde girl’s visit to the lodge. They must have realized she was with Arthur Arden a short time before the shooting. They, the Phantom reasoned, wanted to know what Arden had told her – if anything.

They weren’t overlooking any bets; and from the way the attack on Hugh Royal was slanted, Vicki was turning out to be important to them. If she did know anything she could pass on to the Phantom, the girl had to be dealt with quickly and definitely.

That theory showed the Phantom how correct he had been in assuming Arthur Arden’s girl friend was of paramount value to him. He raised his brooding gaze to Royal.

In a few words he mentioned his visit to Mrs. Wayne’s house. Royal listened.

“That’s a gag – a wire from her father in Minnesota saying her mother is ill. Vicki hasn’t any parents. She told me that herself.”

THE Phantom nodded. He had assumed that the girl had left Mrs. Wayne’s in a hurry for either one of two reasons. Either she didn’t want to be identified with the killing at the lodge, or she was frightened of those who had handled the death job – so frightened that she had gone into hiding somewhere.

“You knew she was friendly with Arden?”

“Sure. She was engaged to be married to him,” Royal answered.

“I’ve been counting on you to tell me where she might be.” The Phantom laid his cards on the table. “You must know some of her friends. And her friends,” he added, “must know where she is now.”

“I can tell you this much.” Royal took another drink. “Her best friend is a Maxine Hillary. She’s a Park Sunderland model. One of the best in New York.”

“That’ll do.” The Phantom got up from his chair. “One thing more. Got a picture of Vicki Selden – I could use?”

“I think so.”

Royal went over to a littered desk and began to rummage around. He stopped and said, “Hello. The boy with the damaged ear has been looking over my stuff.” He pointed to an address book. “He left that open.”

“He’s a bit too late,” the Phantom said laconically. “He’ll find that out when he goes up to Central Park West.”

Royal finally unearthed a small, pastel sketch of a pretty girl. It was one of the early sketches he had made for the magazine cover the bank manager had referred to. He gave it to the Phantom; and, armed with that, the detective moved toward the door.

“Just a word of advice. I don’t believe your twisted-eared pal will be back again. However, be a little careful answering your bell.”

“I will. Thanks,” Royal said, “for the helping hand.”

The Phantom’s next stop was the Avedon Building on lower Park Avenue. That skyscraper reared up above the round dome of the Grand Central Terminal. The Park Sunderland Model Agency was on the fifteenth floor. The Phantom, exchanging an express elevator for a small but suave reception office, found himself completely surrounded by feminine beauty.

On the delicately tinted mauve walls, in colored photographs, were languorous young ladies, enchanting to the masculine gaze. The cream of the crop with their full, tempting lips, and slow, dreamy eyes.

They were counterparts of the sleek, polished girl at the orange-glass desk who glanced up at him with a friendly smile. She wore a white blouse and a black skirt, two simple articles of attire, but with such chic charm that she gave them the distinction of a Paris original.

“Mr. Sunderland, please,” the Phantom requested.

“Appointment?”

“Official call. Detective Bureau, Homicide Division.”

She didn’t question him further. Shortly, the Phantom was talking with Park Sunderland. The proprietor of the agency, a man so fastidiously groomed as to give the impression he had stepped directly from the pages of a Fashions for Men magazine, heard what he had to say and looked slightly troubled. Evidently, the Phantom guessed, Sunderland wasn’t in the habit of having detectives call on him.

“Miss Hillary is one of my girls. She may be here now – if she hasn’t gone out on an assignment.”

“Find out. I want to talk to her,” the Phantom told him, briefly. Sunderland used the telephone. Almost immediately, the door opened and Maxine Hillary came in.

She was a willowy, medium blonde with classical features and a radiance that lighted her violet eyes with an inner glow. Hair, skin, and figure were flawless. In the suit she wore, her youthful glamour was enhanced and accented.

“This man wants to talk to you,” Sunderland said. “He’s a detective.”

The girl seemed to freeze up. A fringe of lashes came down over the violet eyes. The Phantom’s keen glance showed him how her slender fingers curled inward so her nails dug into the palms of her slim hands.

“Detective?”

The Phantom was annoyed by the brusque way Park Sunderland had made the introduction. Quickly, he said, “The department, acting with the New Jersey police in connection with the Arden case, wants to supply protection for your friend, Miss Selden. I’ve been unable to locate her. It will be to her advantage if you’ll tell me where she is.”

Maxine Hillary shook her head. “Why should I know?”

“You’re a friend of Vicki’s.”

“Yes, but – but I haven’t seen much of her lately. And,” she stated clearly, “I haven’t the faintest idea where she is.”

The Phantom prided himself on his ability to know when a person was telling the truth or deliberately falsifying a statement. Maxine Hillary’s tone told him she was lying. He studied her meditatively.

“It’s to Vicki’s advantage,” he repeated.

The girl shook her head. “Sorry, I can’t help you. As I said before, I haven’t seen Vicki for a couple of weeks. She might be in China, for all I know.”

“That’s all.” The Phantom dismissed her with a gesture. After she went out, he turned back to Sunderland. “Let me have the particulars of the assignment she’s going out on.”

Fifteen minutes later, a telephone call to the Clarion brought Steve Huston to the Grand Central Terminal where the Phantom was staked out near the entrance to the railroad station’s huge waiting room.

“No tail?” The Phantom asked the question as he looked over Steve’s shoulder. “You’ll have to be extra careful from now on. Our friends know you, and it’s easy for them to pick you up when you leave the Clarion Building.”

“I’ve been using one of the rear exits,” Steve said.

The Phantom explained what he wanted. Steve was to go down to the Waverly Studio on Fifth Avenue. That was a place where fashion photos were taken and made. He gave the reporter a pinpoint description of Maxine Hillary while Steve memorized it all with growing interest.

“Sounds good. The gal has an hour’s appointment. You want me to follow her away from the bulb-and-shutter joint. What then?”

The Phantom gave him the sketch Hugh Royal had supplied. “There’s a chance that Miss Hillary might get in touch with this girl. She’s the Vicki Selden I’m trying to find. Now that Maxine knows a detective is hunting for Vicki, there’s a possibility she’ll contact her. It’s a long shot, but I can’t overlook it. Do the best you can, and the minute you have any news rush it through to me.”

Steve Huston put the sketch in his pocket. After a word or two further he was out of the waiting room and on his way. The Phantom lingered a few more minutes, searching the passengers and loungers who circulated around the Terminal. He had a feeling that Pennell – or Len – might have picked up Steve’s trail and followed him to Grand Central.

But he didn’t see a sign of the twisted-ear character or the thin-faced man in the pearl-gray hat.

Satisfied, the Phantom walked out to 42nd Street. He had plans to make, a diagram to draw up and follow – a crime pattern into which he still had to fit the frail, emaciated figure of Dr. Hugo Winterly, the doctor’s giant servant, and a drift of bronze colored powder, as well as the number eight pool ball which Arden’s fingerprints had marked.

As he walked west, the Phantom knew and understood the riddle of the murder case was to be one of the most difficult to solve he had tackled in his long, successful career.