Robert Wallace - The Dancing Doll Murders

The trail was still hot. The Phantom had a clue to work on. The killers had escaped but, without knowing it, had left the Phantom with a lead that held real promise.

The telephone number Bowers had dialed back there in the hideout! The Phantom’s photographic memory had retained it. KLondike 5-9292.It might bring him close to the real brains behind this carnival of murder.

The Phantom phoned Information and asked for the name of the party under which the phone was listed. He was surprised when the answer came back. The Square Deal Candy and Cigar Store. He came to the conclusion at once that the store must be a mere connecting link in the murderers’ activities. A relay spot perhaps. He got the address, hopped in another cab, and sped to it.

In the darkness of the cab’s interior he made quick changes in his make-up. He removed the black wax from his teeth, the nostril spreaders, the feverish tint that he had used for Dopey O’Banion’s drug-induced flush. He might run into the murder gang again and didn’t want to be recognized.

When he paid his fare two blocks from his destination, the cabman stared at him in startled wonder. One man had entered the cab and another seemingly was leaving it. Van walked away with the driver staring after him, frowning.

HE glanced at the street numbers, crossed to the side opposite from those for which he was looking, and strolled by the Square Deal Candy and Cigar Store. It was a small, run-down shop with a single grimy window and a door at the left. A clutter of candy jars and cigar boxes was visible. There was a dim light burning somewhere in the rear. Van crossed over again, walked by the store, closer this time, and saw that the light was coming through an open transom.

There was no one in sight anywhere along the street. Van stepped into the store’s vestibule, cautiously tried several skeleton keys he carried, and found one that fit. He got the door open and entered silently, the fingers of his right hand clamped around the butt of his.38. The smell of tobacco and candy flavors stung his nostrils.

He closed the door, moved stealthily toward the rear. There was no phone anywhere in sight. He searched carefully, behind boxes, under counters, along the walls.

Then he went to that door, above which the light was coming, and put his ear to it. It seemed to him that he heard a faint sound of breathing. He tried the door, found it locked, too, and used another of his pass-keys.

He stepped into a small rear hall with a low-power frosted bulb burning overhead. It was that which had made the glow in the transom. The Phantom glanced at it, glanced away. There was another door beside him, curtained with heavy, dirty drapes of soiled velvet, and from behind them came clearly now the sound of breathing.

The draperies gaped open just far enough for Van to see that there was no light beyond. It was a bedroom apparently, behind the shop, and it was occupied now by at least one sleeper.

Van took out his flashlight. That breathing seemed to indicate deep slumber. He risked opening the draperies wider and angling his body through, He stood still for a moment, saw nothing, but waited till he was sure the breathing was still steady. Then he cupped his hand over the lens of his flash so that only a thin ribbon would show, and turned it on cautiously.

It was a sleeping chamber. There was a big white enameled bed at the side of the room. On this was a man’s body, with a huge, bloated, piglike head on one end, half buried in dirty pillows. The man was of enormous size, with unshaven cheeks and a mop of greasy black hair. His mouth was slack. His broken teeth showed, and he was breathing noisily. The light of Van’s cautious flash didn’t wake him.

There was no one else in the room but, close by, on a small wall shelf, was a phone, As Van stood there eying it the bell commenced ringing violently.

Coming so suddenly in the stillness of the night, with Van’s nerves taut, the sound seemed to blast against his eardrums. As the phone bell sounded, the huge sleeper stirred.

Van’s hand was in his pocket, holding his gun. He expected a man of such ponderous proportions to wake up slowly, roll over perhaps, and yawn. He thought he had time to slip back out of sight behind the draperies.

But instead of waking slowly the big man appeared to snap into life like an uncoiling spring.

VAN had never seen a man awaken so fast. With one motion the man’s eyes opened, caught Van’s silhouette against the half-open draperies, flung the covers off, and twisted himself from the bed. His reaction was automatic.

He was up and lunging at Van with his huge hands clawing like a frenzied grizzly. The Phantom for once was taken by surprise.

He couldn’t get his gun out. The man’s vast weight struck him, pinioned his right hand in his pocket, toppled him backwards. Van fell with the unshaven human giant almost on top of him.

“Thief! Murderer!” the big man snarled.

His stubby fingers were reaching to throttle Van, squeeze the breath from him. But Van had recovered from the first instant of paralyzed surprise. He twisted from under the weight of the huge body. The draperies came down as the giant pulled at them, tangling Van, who fell again, and light from the hall outside poured through the door.

Van got his right hand free, lashed out with his fist as the man came at him. His knuckles struck that ugly, piglike face. But the blow only dazed the stranger and didn’t stop him. He cursed, arms pistoning, opening and shutting his big mouth. Van untangled his feet and rose as the giant struck down at him.

He met the man’s next attack just in front of the bed. They got close and fought standing face to face for a moment as the telephone continued to sound. It was the incessant clamor of that bell that made Van’s heart beat faster, made him want to end this battle quickly. This great, stupid hulk of a man was obviously only a minor cog in the black murder machine that Van was investigating. But that phone ringing in the dead of night might hold an answer to the riddle.

Van got his left hand free. Reaching up and back, he tried a paralyzing jab at the base of the big man’s skull, a jiu-jitsu blow that was calculated to knock most men cold. But the giant was so padded with fat that the blow missed fire.

The big man swore again, swayed on his feet, but struck chopping, frenzied blows. This was no time for niceties. There was murder in the offing. Van let drive straight at that sagging, flabby paunch of a belly. The man grunted, staggered back. Van followed it up with a savage swing at the big man’s jaw. Even at that the giant could take such punishment that he mightn’t have fallen if he hadn’t tripped on the woven rag rug. He stumbled backwards, beat the air desperately, and fell against the foot of the white enameled bed. There was a thud as his skull struck metal. His big body sagged to the floor. The room was suddenly still – except for the persistent jangling of the phone.

Van crossed to it catlike, lifted the receiver.

“Hog-face, you damned lazy fool!” a voice almost shouted at him. “Can’t you wake up! I’ve been calling for the last five minutes. Quick, you big dough-belly, connect me with Blackie.”

His heart hammering, Van recognized the voice of the gang leader, Bowers. He grunted thickly, deep in his throat, like a sleepy, stupid man, while his eyes roved around the edge of the phone box. Bowers had said “connect me with Blackie.”

And then Van saw the short, black, metal-pointed cord hanging below the phone box, with a plug-in place in the wall. It was an extension. Here was the function of the hog-faced giant. The candy store served as a front for a switchboard. Hog-face was its operator.

Van plugged the metal points in, still holding the receiver to his ear, and heard a signal bell sound in the distant extension. Then there was a click as another receiver was lifted. A different voice came, a strange one to the Phantom.