Robert Wallace: The Black Ball Of Death

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!

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.