Robert Wallace - The Black Ball Of Death

The telephone was on the windowsill, atop a Manhattan directory. The Phantom inched toward it. He could call Inspector Gregg at Headquarters. He could have Gregg pick up the two men in the room, though it might be hard to make any charge stick! The cold-voiced man possibly could be booked on a Sullivan violation – if he didn’t have a gun permit. A suspicion of murder charge would hardly stand up when a smart lawyer went to work on it. There was no concrete evidence to tie either or both of the men in with Arthur Arden’s murder at Lake Candle.

The same thought must have been running through the pale eyed man before the Phantom.

“All right, turn us in,” he said. “See how far that gets you.”

Twisted Ear relaxed slightly. “That’s right, Dan. He hasn’t got anything on us!”

“Nothing,” the Phantom said tersely, “except a murder rap!”

He reached the telephone as he spoke. The automatic went from his right hand to his left without any change in its level aim. The Phantom’s right forefinger reached out for the open circle in the dial, after he had unpronged the instrument and laid it on the windowsill.

He never clicked off Headquarters’ number.

The creak of the door on its hinges was synchronous with the lazy, drawled command of the one who came in.

“Let your gun go, and keep your hands away from your sides!”

FROM the corner of his eye the Phantom saw the pearl-gray hat and the thin face beneath its brim. ‘Bernie’ quietly shouldered the door shut as the Phantom tossed his automatic away and spread his arms wide.

“See what else he’s wearing in the hardware line,” Bernie said.

The man walked as far as the table. His right hand was clamped around the tenite grip of a High Standard automatic. The type, the Phantom saw instantly, that fired.380 cartridges. A particularly vicious weapon in an experienced hand.

Twisted Ear got hastily out of the chair. The man in the pearl-gray hat said, “Not you, Len. Let Dan do it.”

Dan felt over the Phantom’s person with a quick, professional touch. His fingers missed little in their search. He tossed the Phantom’s wallet, police badge, and keys to the porcelain-topped table where the brandy bottle stood.

“That’s all,” he said.

Bernie looked at the badge quizzically, but he made no comment. His thin face went back in the Phantom’s direction.

“We’ve caught ourselves something. We’ll tie this gentleman up and keep him safe until I find out what to do with him. I might be wrong, but I have an idea a certain person is going to be very much interested in him.”

He shifted his feet, told the twisted-eared Len what he wanted done, and watched the Phantom narrowly while Len, crossing the room, opened the closet and fumbled around on its shelves.

The gravelly voiced Dan lighted a cigarette and inhaled deeply. Silently he waited until Len dug a length of sash-cord out of the closet and came back with it. “This ought to do. It’s tough.” He gave it a two-handed yank as if to verify his opinion.

“Go to work on him,” Bernie said to Dan. “Make it escape-proof.”

Dan did, while the Phantom, motionless, made no move to interfere. But his mind was busy while the knots were being tied. He saw his cue was to play a waiting game. Delayed action offered more possibilities for an eventual payoff than the risk of attempting to buck three-to-one odds – without a gun.

When the Phantom was neatly trussed up, Bernie pushed him down onto another of the backless chairs in the sparsely furnished room. He stowed his automatic in a sheath worn low under his vest on the left side and fingered through the wallet Dan had taken from the Phantom’s inner coat pocket. There was nothing revealing in it, but Bernie examined each item of its contents with scrupulous care. Finally he discarded it with a shrug.

“You stay around and keep our friend company,” he told Dan. “You’re coming with me, Len. We’ll be back,” he added, over his shoulder, “after a while. Watch this guy, Dan.”

“Don’t worry. I’ll take care of him.”

A few minutes later Bernie, with Twisted Ear accompanying him, went out. Dan watched them go, turned, and helped himself to a glass and the brandy bottle. He smacked his lips appreciatively; glanced out of the window; rubbed his chin; and, taking the chair Len had occupied, placed it across from where the Phantom sat and dropped into it.

For awhile he amused himself with a nail file. The Phantom watched him, hiding his interest behind half closed eyes. Len had picked up the automatic the Phantom had dropped at Bernie’s command. He had put it on the table, not far from the wallet. The Phantom’s hooded gaze strayed to his gun. It was no more than four feet away from him. Four tantalizing feet – forty-eight short inches!

Cautiously he tested the sash cord. His hands were behind his back, lashed down just above his hips and out of Dan’s idle gaze. The Phantom moved his wrists. The cord was evidently old and had lost much of its former stiffness. It was soft against the bones in his wrist. He kneaded it warily, feeling it stretch slightly as the minutes passed; and he kept at it.

Once, Dan, the nail file put away, gave him a sharp look. The Phantom yawned. Dan got up and walked around to the side of the chair where his prisoner sat. He shot a glance at the Phantom’s bonds and, satisfied, went back to his seat.

Downstairs, the piano music had stopped. Somebody had gone out of the office of Horgan and Carter, pausing to call back, “I’ve left for the day, if anyone phones, Marge.”

THE Phantom started on the sash cord again. It was slow, tedious, nerve-wracking work. It had to be done surreptitiously, with no motion of the upper arms or shoulders to attract the attention of the man across from him.

Strength and muscular development had always been part of the Van Loan code. More than once Dick Van Loan’s superb physical condition had stood the Phantom Detective in good stead. It was declaring dividends now in chafed wrists which, by the dint of patient perseverance, had loosened one knot sufficiently to allow his right hand to slip free.

The Phantom bent slightly forward as if easing his position. Dan’s cold eyes focused on him. More than an hour had elapsed since Bernie and Len had left the room – sixty minutes, marked by shadows lengthening across the uncarpeted floor.

Grimly, the Phantom examined the angles of the situation. He had been wrong once that afternoon. He had figured Pennell, after making the warning call from the office below, had faded from the picture. Instead, the man in the pearl-gray hat had come up to investigate – probably sure that his two employees had carried out his orders, that the Phantom had been subdued and was on ice.

Now, the Phantom was quick to see, that initial mistake might be made to yield results, favorable results. It wouldn’t be too difficult, he was confident, to overpower Dan – to reverse the setup. Then, he told himself, with the frosty voiced man his prisoner, he would be in a position to deal with Pennell and Len when they returned.

The Phantom’s pulses quickened. Bernie Pennell was a prize worth twice the value of Dan and Len. For Pennell, undoubtedly, was the direct link to the man responsible for Arthur Arden’s murder. And once he got his hands on Pennell he could pressure him into revealing things important to the cracking of the case. But first he’d have to get the thin-faced character. Only then would he be closer to the solution of this case which, so far, was cloaked in mystery.

And time was a double-edged factor now.

Hands free, the Phantom was ready to go into action. He cleared his throat, saying, “How about a drink?”