The Black Ball Of Death

CHAPTER VII

A RICKETY old building on the outskirts of the small town a mile from the south end of the lake was where Sheriff McCabe did business. The town was officially known as Candleton, and that name appeared on the maps and over the door of the combined general store and post office.

McCabe’s office was on the first floor of the old house. Behind it was a four-cell lockup, a garage, and the mortuary. A couple of deputies lounged on the front porch. Their feet came down from the railing when the Phantom nodded to them and went inside.

The pot-bellied, carroty-haired sheriff was busy on the telephone. The Phantom helped himself to a chair close to McCabe’s desk. He glanced over the placards on the wall. The office was also shared by the local game warden and dog-license clerk. McCabe’s desk gave the appearance of not having been straightened for years.

McCabe hung up and shook hands with the Phantom. “That reporter from the Clarion was talking to me earlier today. He -”

“Huston told me what you said. Thirty-eight caliber gun. Two bullets. You didn’t find the gun?”

The sheriff shook his carroty head. “Not yet. But I’ve got some news for you.”

“Let’s have it.”

“We’ve got four hotels around here.” McCabe settled back in his chair, obviously intrigued with the idea that he had information for the famous Phantom. “They are small places, used mostly by summer folks. One of them’s called the Lakeside Inn. It’s up at the north end. Run by a friend of mine, named Grundy.”

The Phantom waited. He hoped the sheriff wasn’t going to make it long-winded and drawn out. McCabe reached for a pipe, stuffed some tobacco in it, and struck a match.

“Seems like Grundy had a suspicious guest staying at the inn for two days. A man who signed himself Bernard Pennell, from Chicago – or so he wrote in the register. Got his description right here.” He fumbled among the litter on his desk and came up with a sheet of paper.

“What made him suspicious?” the Phantom queried.

“Fact that he asked Grundy’s clerk a lot of questions about the Arden lodge. This Pennell left the inn around eight o’clock last night and didn’t get back until after twelve., He checked out at eight o’clock this morning. Car with a couple of other men in it picked him up on the road outside the inn grounds. If that ain’t suspicious, I’d like to know what is.”

“You’re right,” the Phantom agreed.

McCabe looked pleased. “Sure. I sent out an alarm. I want to pick that car up and get Pennell for questioning.”

“A good idea if it works. But,” the Phantom added, “I don’t believe it will.”

“Why not?”

“The one – or ones – responsible for young Arden’s murder are clever. Too clever to allow themselves to be caught in a car. You can be sure they’re using wrong markers and are out of the state by now. Or they’re hidden somewhere not on the move, heading for any police trap.”

Sheriff McCabe puffed on his pipe, thinking it over. He moved his feet.

“Here’s a funny one,” he said. “Remember the pool ball that was on the floor near the body?”

The Phantom threw him a sharp look. “What about it?”

“Arden’s prints were on it,” McCabe said, slowly. “We took Arden’s for files – do things pretty complete around here – and they turned out to be a perfect match for the ones we took off the ball. Which means, Arden put that ball on the floor where we found it!”

For a minute the Phantom was silent. Again the significance of the eight ball ran through his mind. What the sheriff disclosed added another twist to the riddle. Though, the Phantom realized, the slayer could have clamped Arthur Arden’s cold fingers around the ball and put his prints on it.

When he mentioned that, McCabe was quick to shake his head. “Too clear for that. These were live prints.”

“Then,” the Phantom said, “death wasn’t instantaneous. What did the medical examiner say? If Arden was shot twice, and one bullet entered his heart, he didn’t have much time to pick up balls.”

“That’s right,” McCabe rubbed his chin. “But he could have been standing beside the table when he was shot. He could have had the pool ball in his hand. He could have held onto it and collapsed with it.”

“And,” the Phantom said, half to himself, “he could have seen his killer before the shots were fired and purposely reached for the ball.”

“Why would he do that?” McCabe looked puzzled.

“For a number of reasons. All of them, at the moment, hypothetical.”

The sheriff shook his head. “According to the Doc, Arden was blanked out fast. Either shot, so Doe said, was enough to have killed him quick.”

“I think,” the Phantom commented, “I’ll talk to your friend Grundy at the inn. Let me know about the other fingerprints you found when you have the report. Meanwhile,” he added just the right amount of flattery, “keep up the good work, Sheriff. You’re moving in the right direction.”

“Well, thanks.” McCabe seemed to expand and glow. “Coming from you that means a lot!”

The Phantom left him and, following directions, stopped at the Lakeside Inn.

It was a typical summer hostelry, limited to no more than fifty guests. Hiram Grundy, in his too-large, high, starched collar, too-short alpaca jacket, and too-tight trousers looked like a hangover from the Gay Nineties when the Phantom found his office back of the clerk’s desk and made his business known. This time he passed himself off as a New York detective and let Grundy see his shield.

“Tell me about this Bernard Pennell,” he said. “McCabe has his description. Medium height, dark complexion, thin face with no distinguishing feature or features.”

“That’s right.” Grundy wrinkled his forehead. “Guess he weighed about a hundred and fifty, maybe less. Nice talker and seemed well educated. Plenty of money.”

“Did you notice anything about his ears?”

Grundy looked startled. “Ears?”

“Was one of them twisted or malformed?”

“No. Looked the same as anybody else’s to me.”

The Phantom nodded. “He checked out this morning. Did you notice the men in the car he left in?”

“No, I didn’t. Pennell took his own bag out. He seemed in a hurry. There were a couple of fellers in the auto. I didn’t get a good look at them.”

“I’ll take a look at the room Pennell slept in last night.”

Grundy got a key from the rack and led the way up one flight of stairs. He opened the door at the end of the corridor and stood aside to let the Phantom go in.

The Phantom glanced around. It was a pleasant room, sunny and furnished with a gaily painted bureau, bed, table, and chairs. The bed had been freshly made and the room otherwise had been cleaned and put in order. A waste basket under the table was empty. If Bernard Pennell had left any clues, the maid assigned to the room had removed them.

With a shrug the Phantom stepped back into the hall.

“Thanks,” he said to Grundy. “That’s all.”

The hotel man seemed a trifle surprised. Evidently he had expected the New York detective to go through a Headquarters routine, checking the room from floor to ceiling.

The Phantom went back to Sheriff McCabe’s office. At the curb there, his big black sedan stood parked under a tree. Steve Huston, on the front seat, was making shorthand notes. He slipped the book in his pocket as the Phantom joined him.

Steve’s freckled face wore an optimistic look. “Just got back from the State Attorney’s office. Nice guy. But no new angles on Arthur Arden’s murder. Did you have any luck?”

“Plenty – all bad.” The Phantom spoke laconically. “McCabe inside?”

“He went out about ten minutes ago – on a phone call from somebody named Ruddy who claims he found a boat he thinks the killer used last night. Maybe we’d better go over and see what it’s all about.”

“I’ll tell you on the way back. Finished here?”

“Temporarily.” Steve Huston tossed his cigarette out the window and slouched back on the leather upholstery.

The Phantom’s word picture of morning activities at Lake Candle was brief but. to the point. Huston listened attentively. When the Phantom came to the shots fired at him from the woods, the reporter straightened.

“Then the killer’s on the loose – at the lake! What are we going back to town for?”

“Not the killer.” The Phantom’s tone was crisp. “He’s too smart to lurk around the scene of last night’s tragedy. But he’s left a rear guard. Someone to cover the neighborhood, keep him informed on what progress is being made by the law and -”

“Knock you off!” the reporter cut in. “How do they know you’re in it?”

The Phantom moved his shoulders. “I’ve been pretty much in evidence since I arrived at the lodge last night. They had a watcher staked out in the woods there. A pair of high-powered binoculars could have picked me out this morning on several occasions.”

“What now?” Huston asked, when they were on the main highway, heading swiftly back to Manhattan.

“I’ll have something for you to do – later. You,” the Phantom told him, “and Chip Dorlan…”

IT WAS almost three o’clock in the afternoon when Dorlan came into the Green Spot, that Broadway tavern which the Phantom found convenient as a rendezvous whenever he was on a case.

The Green Spot occupied a Times Square corner and had a rear room where conversation was possible without being listened in on. With Steve Huston beside him, the Phantom watched the electric clock over the door that led to the circular bar in the front of the place.

At exactly the time he had set, Chip walked in.

Like the redheaded reporter, Chip Dorlan was a valued assistant to the Phantom Detective. Born and reared on the West Coast, Chip had come up the hard way. He claimed San Francisco as a birthplace, and his early training in the University of Hard Knocks had been buffed and polished during the war with Army Intelligence.

Now, equipped with exactly the qualifications the Phantom needed, Chip’s wartime training, quick wits, and sound judgment, made him a big help on any case. Sometime, the Phantom knew, Chip was going to step out and open an agency office of his own. He had all the necessary attributes that went to make a first-class private detective.

Slim, wiry, and sharp-eyed, Chip shook hands with the Phantom when Steve gave him a significant nod. Dorlan pulled up a chair.

“Don’t tell me,” he began. “Let me guess. It’s the murder at Lake Candle last night.”

“It’s your jackpot.” Steve grinned. The Phantom gave Chip Dorlan a concise, two-minute rsum of the killing at the lodge. Then he leaned forward. “I want you two to find a blonde named Vicki. She was a friend of Arthur Arden, probably one of the last to see him alive. She’s important. She has to be located!”

“A blonde?” Dorlan drew a breath. “Like looking for a haystack in a flock of needles.”

“Arden spent a lot of time and money in the night spots around town,” the Phantom pointed out. “Somebody should know Vicki. Waiters, hat-check girls, doormen, bus boys – I want you both to get busy checking them immediately. Steve can prepare a list of all the main places. Divide them up between you, and start at once. This girl has got to be found!”

A few minutes later the Phantom left the Green Spot. His intention was to stop off for a word with Frank Havens. He always did that when he was working on a case, keeping the publisher informed as to what progress had been made.

The Times Square pavements were crowded as usual. Out-of-town visitors, the habitus of the district, and sightseers rubbed elbows and shins in the passing parade.

The Phantom started south, but he hadn’t gone more than a block before his intuition told him someone had picked up his trail. Another block and he turned and walked into a haberdashery shop. There, before a clerk bustled up to wait on him, he shot an inquiring glance back through the doorway – and glimpsed the one who had been shagging him.

Near the curb, slowing perceptibly, was a man of medium height, quietly dressed, with one distinguishing feature. His left ear was oddly twisted!