The Black Ball Of Death

CHAPTER VIII

IT WAS the same character the Phantom and Steve Huston had lost in the traffic that morning. The Phantom’s first flush of annoyance, brought on by knowing the Green Spot had been pegged, faded. A sardonic smile edged his mouth. Frank Havens could wait – until later.

The Phantom knew what had happened. Twisted Ear had gone back to his old stand across from the Clarion Building. Steve Huston, in his haste and eagerness to get over to Times Square, must have left himself wide open for a tail. The man had followed him and hung around outside the tavern.

The thought ran through the Phantom’s mind about the same time the clerk said deferentially, “Something I can show you, sir?”

“That’s right.” The sardonic smile bit deeper. “A rear door out of here!” The Phantom added, “Police business. There’s a man outside I want to slip.”

While he spoke, he palmed his badge. The clerk, a well-barered and-manicured young man, with plastered-down hair and a flower in his buttonhole, was startled.

“Police? You -”

“How do I get out of here without using the front door?” the Phantom broke in brusquely.

“There’s a side entrance – this way.” The clerk spun around on his elevated heels and started toward the rear of the shop. “It leads out to the washroom and back hall.”

“Where does the back hall go?”

“A door at its end opens into the millinery store on the corner.”

“That will do. Thanks.” The Phantom stopped and turned. “If a man comes in for me, a person with a twisted ear, tell him which way I went.”

Another minute and the Phantom created a mild disturbance by stepping directly into the workroom of the millinery establishment mentioned. Four women, busy at work planting artificial flowers on hats, stopped to stare and ask what he wanted.

He went hastily through to the front of the store, flashing his badge en route. Beside a folded length of drapery at the window, he looked cautiously out.

The man with the twisted ear, after a glance into the haberdashery shop, had started down Broadway again.

“Sorry to have bothered you.” The Phantom gave the stout, formidable proprietress one of his best smiles.

“I don’t know what it’s all about,” she rumbled, “but that badge looks official. What’s the trouble?”

The Phantom laughed. “Cops and robbers.”

He let himself out, melting into the crowd with one easy, gliding motion.

Long experience had perfected him in the fine art of successfully trailing a suspect. The Phantom used finesse and strategy that might have been borrowed from an Indian tribesman. He never made the mistake of over-anxiety or allowing himself to be outmaneuvered. Following the man with the twisted ear, he put into play all the deft tricks of his trade.

In the upper Thirties, the one he was after turned abruptly west. The side street was not as crowded as the avenue had been, and the Phantom had to drop back. Now he used his keen, searching gaze to observe his prey’s progress. He sent it arrowing after the other while he cut across to an opposite pavement, flipped down the brim of his hat, and changed his gait.

Twisted Ear went along without a backward glance. The Phantom had done nothing to arouse suspicion or impress him with the feeling he was being dogged. Halfway down the street the man went up a short flight of steps that led to the entrance of a remodeled private house.

There, for the first time, he looked up and down the block before he opened the door and went in.

Passing leisurely, the Phantom gave the place an optical going-over. It was one of those ancient edifices from which the owner derived more rent from business than he could have obtained from furnished rooms or small apartments.

A music publisher held forth on the main floor, a furrier plied his trade in the basement. The windows on the second floor were gold-leafed, Horgan and Carter, Attorneys-at-Law, Bail Bonds. The last two words were in large, impressive script.

The Phantom mounted the short flight of front steps. The door the man had gone through was unlocked. Stepping into a dusty, uncarpeted foyer, the Phantom was greeted by a flurry of piano music swirling from the open transom of the music publisher’s office.

The Phantom frowned at the closed door below the transom. Had the man gone in there? Determined to find out, he opened the door and found himself scrutinizing a small anteroom where a tired brunette was busy counting out freshly printed copies of some musical composition. There was no one else visible.

“Did Mr. McGregor just come in?” the Phantom asked.

Without change of expression or a break in her counting, the girl answered, “No one came in – except you. And who’s Mr. McGregor?”

“My mistake.” The Phantom shut the door after him as he backed out.

There were no other doors along the entry hall. On the landing above, the Phantom considered the ground glass expanse of Horgan and Carter’s place of business. Then he shook his head and went on to a final flight of stairs. They took him to the third floor and brought a quick stir of interest when, emerging on that landing, he found himself face to face with a series of doors.

The piano music filtered faintly up to him. He hardly heard it. He tried the knob of the first door and looked into a storeroom. Files of music told him which tenant rented it. The second door was locked. The third, labeled PRIVATE showed gloom behind its half-pushed-back transom.

The fourth door, when the Phantom reached it, produced better results. Beside it, head lowered, he caught a drift of conversation. Two men were talking.

As he listened, he heard one say, “So you let him get away again?” It was a cold, ironic voice. An unpleasant, gravelly tone, spiced with contempt.

Another voice said, “Listen, this party you put me on is a smart operator. He’s been two jumps ahead of me right along.”

“Sure, sure. But you’re expected to catch up with him after the first slip.”

“So I didn’t. So what?”

The frosty, unpleasant voice said, “Nothing. Tell that to Bernie when he drops around. Maybe he’ll buy it.”

The Phantom’s nerves went tight. This was better luck than he had expected or hoped for. Separated from him by the narrow width of the wooden door were two men who, in some way, were definitely concerned with Arthur Arden’s killing!

“When do you expect Bernie around?” the second speaker asked. The Phantom guessed he was the one with the twisted ear.

“Any time. He left Jersey around noon. Had to do some sharp finagling. The local gendarmes had a call out for him.”

The Phantom’s mind went back to the Lakeside Inn – to the Bernard Pennell who had checked out early that morning.

Bernard Pennell – ‘Bernie’?

The Phantom began to sketch out his next move. He had the choice of breaking in on them, or staying off and waiting for Pennell’s expected arrival. He decided on the latter course after a minute’s quick thought.

The gravelly, icicle-packed voice began to speak again. The Phantom wheeled around. His sharp ears had caught the sound of footsteps coming up the stairs. He took three steps away from the door, turning casually and staring down at the landing below.

There, in the murky light, he had a glimpse of a man who wore a pearl-gray felt hat, a dark suit. He glimpsed a shadowed, thin face, but had no time for more than a superficial glance.

The man in the gray felt opened the door of Horgan and Carter’s office on the floor below and went in.

The Phantom’s face grew thoughtful. He had an odd feeling that the man intended coming on up to the third floor, that he had selected the law office on the spur of the minute.

The Phantom’s eyes moved from the landing below to the door he had listened beside. A minute ticked away, several more, and then a telephone in room rang.

“Yes – speaking.” The cold voice was level and hurried. Its owner listened and said, “I get it. Thanks,” and hung up.

His companion said, “Was that Bernie?”

The other didn’t answer. Instead, he asked, “Seen this morning’s paper? There’s an article in it that might interest you – Let me get it for you.”

The legs of a chair scraped on the floor. Swiftly, the Phantom’s hand dipped in his coat, to reach for the gun in his shoulder holster. As his fingers closed over it, the door before him was swung open.

The Phantom stepped forward, his automatic leveled, his voice smooth and brittle: “Drop that gun!”

The man in the doorway didn’t argue. He stepped back into the office, and the blue-steel revolver in his hand clattered to the floor.

The Phantom kicked it aside and, with gun leveled, entered the room.