Robert Wallace: The Dancing Doll Murders

“The police!” There was no fear in Simon Blackwell’s bright eyes, only surprise and indignation. “You can get right out of here, all of you! I don’t allow my premises to be invaded.” He stared hard at the Phantom’s mask, adding harshly, “And you, too, sir, with your stupid buffoonery.”

“This is a murder investigation,” stated Ferguson in his most impressive tones.

“Murder is it? Well, it would have been more to the point if you’d come ten days ago to arrest that filthy tramp!”

“Your cousin, Don Winstead, was stabbed to death early this evening,” said Farragut coldly. “The lawyer, Jason Squires, was killed a short while afterwards. We’re here to question you about these double killings.”

Blackwell broke into a discordant laugh, his white face wrinkling into lines of mirth that were diabolical.

“So, they got themselves killed, did they? As far as I’m concerned I say good riddance! I’m more interested in the murder of my dog.”

The inspector’s jaw muscles bulged in anger. “There was a clue that pointed straight in your direction,” he snapped. “Squires had a bit of clay from this point of land to which he appeared to attach great significance.”

“Pah!” said Blackwell. “I haven’t left this house for years. I tell you the only murderer I’m interested in is the tramp who brained my dog.”

Farragut was about to cross-question him savagely when Dick Van Loan broke in. “What about this tramp? Just when did he come, and why did he kill your dog?”

Blackwell’s face relaxed a little, and he moved closer to the Phantom. “I see you’ve got some sense, young man, in spite of that buffoon’s mask! The tramp clubbed my dog to death, broke in here, and demanded that I feed him. He was bearded and filthy, and he made me sit with him at the table while he ate.”

“When did this happen?”

“Around the fifteenth – late at night.”

Farragut tugged at Van’s sleeve, pulling him aside. “This won’t get us anywhere! Let’s get him down to brass tacks.”

“I’d like to hear his story,” said Van quietly. “There’s something in this business about the tramp.” He turned back to Blackwell. “Just what did the man do after he broke in and you placed food before him?”

“Ate,” said Blackwell. “Stuffed food into his dirty beard and looked at me. He kept his club on the table beside him and signaled that he’d brain me if I didn’t sit quiet.”

“Signaled you?”

“Yes, he was deaf and dumb – just a mute with criminal inclinations.”

Van turned to the old woman excitedly. “Did you notice anything else peculiar about him?”

She shook her head. “Nothing, except he was in a hurry to get somewhere else. He kept looking at his watch.”

Dick Van Loan stiffened. “You mean to tell me this tramp had a watch?”

“Yes,” said Sarah positively. “I saw him stare at it six or seven times.”

The Phantom was silent a moment, his lips harsh below his mask and a glint of apprehension in his eyes. Inspector Farragut spoke impatiently. “We’re getting nowhere!”

“On the contrary,” said Van grimly, “we know where we stand now. What would you say, Inspector, if I told you Blackwell here was marked for death?”

“Eh?” Farragut started. “How do you figure that?”

“That tramp with the watch!” said Van softly. “A man hungry enough to break in and steal food would have sold or pawned his watch first. And doesn’t it seem odd that a tramp should have one anyway?”

“I can’t get excited about it,” said Farragut glumly.

“No? Surely you’ve heard of watch cameras, Inspector – the simplest way of taking a picture of a man without his knowing it.”

Farragut stiffened as light began to dawn. The Phantom went on relentlessly.

“The fiend behind these killings would want to be sure just what Blackwell looked like before he modeled the face on one of his damnable dolls. That tramp was the real killer. The fact that he played deaf-and-dumb would indicate that he wanted to hide his voice because Blackwell knew him. A beard is one of the crudest but most effective forms of disguise. He used his watch camera to get pictures of his intended victim. You’d better guard Blackwell, Inspector, or you’re going to have your best suspect murdered.”

Even as Van spoke there came the sound of footsteps on the porch of the cottage, then a knock at the door. The Phantom’s hand dropped to the gun in his pocket. But he remembered immediately that there were detectives outside and that they would hardly let any suspicious strangers pass through the gate. He signaled Sarah to open the door.

She did so, and two of Farragut’s men came in escorting a Western Union messenger. The sight of the olive-drab uniform made Dick Van Loan catch a sharp breath. For the boy carried an oblong box under his arm, shaped like a miniature coffin, and his first words were:

“Package for Mr. Blackwell.”

Blackwell looked up angrily. “Take it away – I’ve ordered nothing.”

The boy stared around him, gaping when he saw the Phantom’s black mask.

“It was left at the office with a dollar for delivery out to this dump. Wanta sign fer it, or don’tcha?”

Blackwell made no move to accept the package; but Van snatched it from the surprised messenger’s arms. Without asking permission he began ripping it open. A moment later Farragut and the two detectives stood in grim-eyed wonder. In Van’s hands was one of the sinister dancing dolls with the face of Simon Blackwell on it.

Blackwell looked at it in rising answer. “More buffoonery!” he snapped.

“I’m afraid not, Mr. Blackwell,” said Van ominously. “Figures like this were sent to the other two murder victims this evening. You’re marked for death, as I stated a moment ago. You’ll be killed unless the police can protect you.”

For the first time Simon Blackwell looked frightened. Van drew Inspector Farragut aside.

“It’s good we came out here. Perhaps we can stop this next killing and learn something about the murderers to boot.”

“Right!” said Farragut. “I’ll station my men here and blast them to hell if they come.”

Van shook his head. “At most that will only scare the killers off. Take Blackwell back to Headquarters with you. Don’t let him know what you’re going to do, but hold him tonight. Keep him under cover – and I’ll come back here as his double.”

Farragut clutched his arm. “You can’t do that, Phantom. It’s insane – you’ll be murdered!”

“I hope not, Inspector. But I’ll be the bait that will draw the killers. Let’s get started at once.”

IN the private dining room of a small but luxurious cafe, late that night, a tall, dark man ground out his cigarette. He glanced at his wristwatch, pushed his empty liquor glass away with a decisive gesture, and rose.

“You’re not leavin’, Blackie?” The girl sitting across from him spoke peevishly, her rouged lips drooping and her moist, blue-lidded, sinful eyes glowing with sudden resentment.

“Gotta,” said the dark man quickly.

“Where you goin’?” The girl’s voice was sharp, quavering. But Blackie merely raised his eyebrows, stretched out his chin, and adjusted the knot of his tie. He didn’t speak again till she laid a tense hand on his arm, her fingers with their tinted nails looking like bloodstained claws. Her face had lost its beauty as anger possessed her.

She grew ugly, sluttish. “Blackie, if you’re two-timin’ -” she began.

But the man called Blackie whirled on her so fiercely that she shrank away. “Keep that big trap shut, Dolly! When I get another dame you’ll know it. I’ll drop you like a hunk of hot lead. But until then mind your own business if you know what’s healthy. I got other things to do besides play ‘round with janes.”