The Black Ball Of Death

CHAPTER XXI

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.

“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.”

“But why?” demanded Sunderland. “I don’t understand.”

“Because Royal will murder Vicki if he gets the chance,” the Phantom said grimly.

“No!” Sunderland half rose from the chair, and then sank weakly down again. “And I gave him her address!” He wiped his hand across his forehead in a gesture of despair. “He’ll go there at once. What will we do, Phantom?”

“Don’t worry,” said the Phantom. “I’ll take care of it.” He moved hastily toward the door and then glanced back over his shoulder. “I can assure you that nothing will happen – to Vicki.”

Sunderland just sat there until he heard the door close behind the Phantom. Then he rose swiftly to his feet, went over to a window, drew the curtain back a trifle, and peered down at the street. He waited patiently until he saw the Phantom come out of the building, wave to a taxi, and get in when the cab stopped. The taxi rolled away and disappeared in the Fifth Avenue traffic.

“I really should have been an actor in stead of a business man,” Sunderland said as he turned away from the window. “I seem to possess quite a bit of dramatic ability.”

He went into his bedroom, whipped off the blue dressing robe and hastily buttoned his shirt at the neck. He put on a tie, changed from slippers to walking shoes, and then went back into the living room. Then he walked over to what seemed to be an antique secretary. It swung out under the proper manipulation, to reveal the surface of a fairly large safe.

Sunderland spun the combination, opened it, and nodded contentedly at the sight of the stacks of bills inside.

“I was getting rather tired of New York anyway,” he said. “A vacation will do me good.”

He closed the bag again and left it standing on the floor as he re-locked the safe and swung the secretary back into place. A feeling of uneasiness swept over him as he glanced at the chair in which the Phantom had been sitting. Had there been a double meaning in those last words the Phantom had uttered just before he left so hastily, Sunderland wondered.

“I can assure you that nothing will happen – to Vicki,” the Phantom had said.

Merely words of assurance to an apparently worried man – but why had there been that slight pause before the Phantom said the girl’s name. Had that meant the Phantom could not offer the same assurance to others – and Park Sunderland had been one of those.

“Rot!” Sunderland muttered. “I’m getting jittery over nothing.”

In the stillness that hung over the apartment the sound of his own words were comforting. He dismissed the uneasiness with a shrug as he went back into the bedroom. He put on his coat, packed another small bag with necessities, and finally took a.38 automatic out of a bureau drawer, pumped a bullet into the firing chamber, and set the safety at the ‘off’ position. He put this into a side pocket. Then he went back to the window where he stood watching the street again.

After twenty minutes of waiting that seemed like hours he finally saw a sleek sedan pull up to the curb in front of the apartment building. The door opened, and Bernie Pennell stepped out. Pennell stood on the sidewalk long enough to light a cigarette, and then he tossed away the empty pack and got back into the car.

“It’s about time he got here,” Sunderland said as he turned away from the window. “I’ve got a hunch we’d better hurry.”