The Black Ball Of Death

CHAPTER XVIII

DR. WINTERLY’S SECRET

NOT ENOUGH strength remained in the Phantom for him to resist when they seized and shoved him to the cellar steps. Bernie opened the door; and Len, with a laugh, pushed his helpless prisoner downstairs. The fall almost robbed the Phantom of his senses again.

He was pushed and propelled to a narrow door made of slats, set about two inches apart. It opened on creaky hinges, and a weakling could have pushed the door off its frame. This was one-third of the cellar, a bin created of these slats which reached to the ceiling. Wood had been piled up here, and the walls of the bin were only meant to keep the wood orderly. The floor was of dirt and felt cool against the Phantom’s cheek.

He knew he had plenty of time. Bernie departed soon after they closed the rickety door and shoved a stick of wood through the hasp which held it shut. Len tipped a shaded, strong electric light bulb so that it acted as a floodlight and penetrated into the deepest part of the bin. Len had a chair tilted against the wall. An upturned barrel acted as a table, and he laid a gun on it with the knife beside it, its point off the edge of the barrel so the weapon could be quickly seized and set into motion.

The Phantom crawled over until he reached the wall. There he pulled himself into a sitting position and took stock of his circumstances. They didn’t look too good.

His head was clearing though, and the assortment of aches and pains abating. He looked limp and helpless, but there was strength in his muscles by now, and he was thinking hard.

To get out of this virtual cage, he had to crash down the door. An easy task but not with Len seated just opposite with a gun and a knife, both ready to use on him. No matter how fast he acted, he couldn’t possibly be fast enough to prevent Len from moving in. The slatted walls and door of this bin would impede the Phantom just enough to permit Len to get set.

The Phantom reached up with one hand, secured a grip on one of the slats, and hauled himself into a standing position. The board under his hand cracked and then sagged from its moorings. The bin was ready to collapse.

“Come on out, Phantom,” Len said. “All you have to do is bust the door down. Or the wall, if you like. Any wall. Just come out and see how it feels to get a knife buried in your chest. I don’t miss with a knife, Phantom. And I’m no dope like Vogel must have been. You got him, but you won’t get me.”

The Phantom walked unsteadily to the door and watched Len intently. The killer’s hand moved down toward the knife, fingers grasped the tip of it. The Phantom merely put his hands on the slats of the door and stood there, peering between them.

Len. reissued his invitation. “Step out, Phantom. Sure, it’s easy. Give the door a shove. It’ll fall right down – and so will you.”

He laughed, relishing his own idea of a joke. The Phantom merely watched without comment. There was a way out of this, somehow. There had to be. Barker was, to all appearances, much smarter than an average pug, but he could bested in a battle of wits. No man who lived by crime could possibly possess a superlative amount of cleverness or mental brilliance. Len’s mind was wily, shrewd, fast to react perhaps, but somewhere in his makeup was a weak point. Phantom had to learn it.

“Why did you use a gun on Arthur Arden if you’re so handy with a knife?” he asked blandly.

Len laughed. “I’d have used a knife if I’d been there. But what’s the difference? He’s just as dead.”

“Very true,” the Phantom replied.

Len hadn’t tried to evade that question. He possessed a very direct way of thinking. Why not take advantage of it?

“You’d better have a good alibi for that night, Len,” the Phantom said. “Bernie has one, but have you?”

“Try and bust it,” Len grinned. “I’m a whiz at alibis.”

“They can be broken,” the Phantom said slowly. “A false one, at least.”

“Ours ain’t faked for that night,” Len assured him, and indirectly told the Phantom that Arthur Arden’s murder had been committed by the man who engineered this whole series of crimes.

What was just as interesting, to the Phantom’s present way of thinking, was the fact that Len had no idea he’d given so much away in that brief statement.

THE Phantom’s right hand closed around one of the four inch wide boards forming the wall. He slowly applied pressure. Nails squealed. The board began parting from its moorings, and Len’s hand darted toward the knife again.

The Phantom let go of the board. One half hearted yank could free it. He glanced at his watch. In fifteen minutes, Bernie would have fashioned the alibi for himself and for Len, who was to be the actual murderer. When the time came, Len would force the Phantom at gun point, out of the bin, upstairs to the room where Luke was sleeping off his drug-induced coma. Then the knife would make its last flight. When the Phantom was found, Luke’s prints would be smeared all over the knife blade and handle.

No one else’s would be there, and Luke would have no story at all.

Whatever was to be, the Phantom realized he must force Len to use the knife first. There was no dodging a bullet, but a knife might be parried or ducked. Len only had one arm. He might be reached before he could seize the gun. The Phantom had to make the first move. He approached the door, leaned against it, and let his hand rest upon the board he’d already worked half loose.

“I don’t think you’re so hot with a knife,” the Phantom said. “I think I can take you, Len. I think I will.”

Len smiled complacently. “Any time, Phantom. Any time at all. Just push that door down.”

The Phantom braced himself, set his shoulder tight against the door and shoved. At the same time he ripped the loose board free. The door caved in. Len was on his feet, holding the knife by its tip and drawn back over his shoulder. His arm snapped forward. The blade came hurtling straight at the Phantom in as accurate a throw as the Phantom had ever seen.

He was on the move too. There was no chance of evading the blade, but he was bringing up the width of board and thrusting it into the path of the knife. The blade hit the board, sliced through it, ripped a gash in the Phantom’s wrist, but stopped there.

With a wild yell Len reached for the gun. He had been too certain that the blade was going to slice its way home. He’d never missed. He couldn’t at this incredibly short distance. Len’s mind was set on that score. It required a split second or two to change it, and during that second or two, the Phantom was coming at him.

The Phantom hurled the board with its knife sticking through it. Len, hand on his gun, had to duck or be struck by the missile. When he straightened, a fist was whizzing toward his face. It struck, full on the bridge of Len’s nose. He screamed. He started to bring up the gun, but blood blinded him.

A hand came down on his wrist, almost breaking it. The fist smashed him again, in the same spot. He felt the gun torn out of his grasp. Again he was struck, this time just below the chest. It doubled him up. He took a few waddling steps backward, encountered the wall, and then his whole body was snapped erect as a punch landed against his chin.

Len slowly sank to the floor, back still against the wall, so that he sat there, glassy eyed and moaning. The Phantom, breathing hard, nearly exhausted, straddled the chair which Len had abandoned. He trained the gun on the half conscious thug.

The gun shook badly.

The Phantom managed a grin. If Len had succeeded in putting up much of a fight, he’d have won. The Phantom’s experience in the lake, evading the speed boat which Bernie and Len had been using as a murder weapon, had robbed him of much of his strength. Then the blows he’d been given, practically finished the job.

Gradually the gun steadied though, and as Len came out of it he found himself staring down the length of its barrel. Len shuddered and tried to push himself through solid masonry wall.