Robert Wallace: The Dancing Doll Murders

Against the background of stark, brutal murder there was something weirdly horrible about that spinet-like music. While Winstead lay on the floor dead, a thin crimson line running out from the edge of the knife handle, the small doll made in his likeness danced stiffly to the thin, monotonous melody. It seemed almost a dance of triumph for his murder. Even hard-boiled Steve Huston could feel something akin to horror crawling along his spine.

Mrs. Tyler lost her ultra-smart poise, turned away and gave a smothered sob. The spring in the doll grew slack. Its motions and the music slowed, stopped altogether. The doll gave one last jerky step, then fell forward on its face. The movement was so much like Don Winstead’s dying plunge that Reggie, his brother, gave a harsh cry of fright and horror.

Farragut picked the doll up again cautiously, handed it to Detective-sergeant Nelson.

“Go over it for prints, find out where it was made and anything else you can. Sounds like a German music box to me. Contact every German import goods store in the city.”

“But the face -”

“I know. It was made here, stuck on after the face that came on it was pulled off. That wig was stuck on, too. I’d think it was a joke, or that some nut had sent it, except for this killing.”

Farragut turned on the people present. His notebook was in his hand, and his eyes were sharp as a bird’s.

“Now folks,” he said loudly, “I want you to describe those men who came in as well as you can. Tell me again exactly what they did.”

One after another he got the stories from the three remaining heirs in the Caulder house and from Jason Squires, while Steve Huston listened. But they added little to what was already known.

A white-faced male nurse came tiptoeing into the room presently and said that the sick man upstairs would like to see the inspector. Death had already struck too close for those present to have consideration for the dying. But when Inspector Farragut finished his questioning of the witnesses he turned and followed Caulder’s male nurse up the stairs.

Steve Huston, asking permission of no one, slyly slipped out and climbed the carpeted stairs after the inspector.

The door of the sick room was ajar. He got a good view of the man on the death bed.

Esmond Caulder was a ghastly sight under the shaded light. He had lantern jaws almost like those of a skeleton. His nose was hawk-like. The blueness of his thin lips and nostrils made Huston shudder. He had seen the marks of approaching death before.

Caulder half rose and pointed a bony finger at the inspector.

“Don – murdered! Where did those killers go? Why did you let them -”

A convulsive attack of pain twisted his pinched face horribly, made him double up and clasp his chest. The nurse stepped forward to try to make him lie back, but the sick man pushed him away. When he recovered his breath again he said blasphemously to Farragut:

“You stuffed-shirt detectives, damn every one of you! I’ll use what strength I’ve got left to break you if you don’t find the men who killed. Go along now – get them!”

Caulder lay back, eyes closed, his chest rising and falling so that it was painful to see. Farragut turned and came toward the door. Steve Huston backed away hastily and hurried downstairs so as not to be caught spying.

It was near the doorway into the murder room that Jason Squires the lawyer, nabbed him. There was a strangely haunted, strangely excited look in Squires’s eyes.

“I’ve seen you in court,” he said to Steve hoarsely. “You – you’re a reporter.” He licked his lips, brought his face closer. “I want to speak to you – I’ve got something vitally important to ask you right sway.”

“Shoot,” said Steve. “I’m a guy who’s always ready to listen.”

“Not here,” whispered Squires. “We must talk privately. Come into the den.”

He led Huston to a small room off to the left of the library, closed the door tightly. His face was working now. Steve noticed that there were gathering beads of sweat on the lawyer’s forehead.

“This killing is horrible!’ Squires muttered. “Horrible and mysterious. I’m afraid the police are stumped.”

“They’re not so dumb,” said Huston quickly.

“No – but they haven’t an idea what they’re up against this time. Not an idea – do you understand? I don’t know as any organized group of men can cope with it. It’s black as Hell, and fiendishly unnatural.” Squire’s tongue ran over his thin lips again like a bird dog’s. “I wish one man could be found to make investigations. I wish that man they call the Phantom could be called in on the case before – before there’s another dreadful killing!”

Steve Husten said nothing. Squires caught hold of his coat with a viselike grip.

“I mean it! This won’t be the only murder! There’ll be others – others, do you hear? Others!” His grip on Steve’s coat tightened. He pulled Steve toward him. “How does one make contact with the Phantom? You’re a newspaper man. You get around, hear things, you ought to know.”

There was desperate appeal in Squires’s voice. The beads of sweat on his forehead had now become little rivulets. But still Steve Huston was silent. Only one man in the world knew who the Phantom was, or just how to get hold of him, and Steve didn’t like to divulge that man’s identity.

But Squires went on in a voice that almost cracked:

“I don’t want my name mentioned to the police. I don’t want to be brought into this any more than I am at the moment. I don’t want any publicity. But if the Phantom can be located I’m prepared to turn over to him a possible clue to this horrible murder!”

“WHAT?”

Steve Huston bent forward, his own eyes brightening as he scented a story. Squires had mentioned a possible series of murders.

Either the man was crazy, or else he knew something big.

“Put me wise,” said Steve. “I’ll be as mum as the sphinx, but maybe I can relay what you tell me to the Phantom.”

Squires shook his head violently. “No, no! I won’t confide in anyone except the Phantom. I know his record. I’m a lawyer. I’ve followed his cases. If you try to use what I’ve said as news I’ll deny having spoken to you.”

“I won’t doublecross you!” Steve muttered. “I don’t know who the Phantom is myself; but I’m willing to take you to a chap who might be able to get in touch with him – providing you’ve got some really hot dope.”

“The Phantom will see me,” said Squires quickly. “Don’t you understand – if what I think is true, this is just the first of a chain of fearful murders?”

“Even at that,” Steve Huston stated, “the Phantom doesn’t bust in on every murder cycle. You can’t just ring him up like you would a bellhop. He’s an important guy, a big shot. But come on if you want me to help you.”

“Not together,” said Squires fearfully. “You go first. I’ll meet you down near the corner mailbox.”

Steve Huston looked sharply at the man’s frightened face. “You’re trying to insinuate that some of the folks who saw the murder are mixed up in it?”

“I’m not insinuating anything. I only know that I must be cautious, terribly cautious. When I talk to the Phantom he’ll understand.”

Steve Huston shrugged. He lighted a cigarette and went into the room where the dead man lay. He made mental note of the appearance of the witnesses, watched the city medical examiner make a routine examination of the corpse. Then he hurried out, muttering that he had to get a story to his paper. He tooled his car out of the drive, waited, parked in the shadows, until furtive footsteps told him that the lawyer was coming.