Robert Wallace - The Black Ball Of Death

Dan leered at him. “After awhile.”

“Come on, get me a drink of water.”

Dan considered the request. There was a basin across the room. After a thoughtful pause the man in the brown suit got up. He walked over to the table and picked up one of the glasses. With that in hand he started for the sink.

He had taken no more than a half dozen steps toward it before the Phantom rose up from the backless chair like a wraith from a magic bottle. His legs were still lashed together, but he had made his plans and knew every move. He flung himself toward the porcelain-topped table. In a flash he had his automatic and was swinging around to meet Dan who, hearing the slap of hands on the porcelain, turned rapidly.

Dan threw the glass. The Phantom flicked his head aside, and the glass sailed through the window with a splintering crash. Dan’s gun was out before the echoes of the breaking window had died. He fired point-blank, the slug whistling perilously close to the Phantom’s head.

The Phantom, noted for his snap-shooting ability, squeezed his automatic’s trigger. Promptly, the gun flew out of Dan’s hand, and the man grabbed for his bullet-creased wrist with a throaty curse.

Holding him at bay, the Phantom tore away his leg bonds while, from the regions below, he heard the sudden blast of a police whistle, voices, doors opening and closing.

He kicked the sash cord off his legs and pounced on Dan like a swooping hawk. But, even as he yanked the man toward him, the Phantom felt little satisfaction in the complete turnabout that made the cold-voiced watchdog his prisoner.

He had Dan; but now, warned away by the confusion aroused by the breaking window and the shots, the prize he had planned to trap was out of his reach!

LONG months had passed since the last time Chip Dorlan had worn a tuxedo. In his room at a mid-Manhattan boarding house, Chip, in black and white, eyed himself critically in the bureau’s mirror.

He tilted the mirror back so he could get as much of a full-length view of himself as possible. He frowned at his reflected image. The suit seemed to fit all right, but he must have put on a little weight around the middle. The top trouser button was a bit tight when he fastened it.

Chip turned for a profile glimpse before he made sure he had everything he needed for his night’s excursion into the realm of entertainment. Plenty of money in his leather wallet, a filled cigarette case, his keys, and the typed list Steve Huston had give him late that afternoon.

Dorlan consulted that before he put on his hat. They had tossed to see which one would take which territory, and which night resorts, in their following out of the Phantom’s orders.

Chip had lost, and Steve had taken the places from 51st Street to 59th. That left Chip with almost twenty night-resorts to visit in the Times Square and Longacre sectors.

He walked from the boarding house to the blatant boulevard whose varicolored lights painted the night sky with bright coloring. As he went along, an enigmatic smile turned down the corners of his mouth. A blonde named Vicki. One of the last to see Arthur Arden alive. A girl, Steve had told Chip, who the Phantom believed had been at the Lake Candle lodge with young Arden, a short time before he had been killed.

A blonde girl, Chip’s thoughts ran on, vitally necessary to the Phantom’s investigation of the case. And either he or Steve Huston had to get a lead on her. It really was like the haystack and the needles he had gagged about to the Phantom at the Green Spot.

However tough the assignment appeared on the surface, it was the type of thing Chip liked to handle. In Army Intelligence he had been called upon to do that sort of work – finding some suspected person who had apparently dropped completely out of sight and decided to remain unfound. He had been eminently successful in his service days and hoped he hadn’t lost his touch.

An hour later, Chip began to realize the difficulties confronting him. In several of the places he stopped, there had been no trouble learning Arthur Arden had been a patron. And no trouble learning that Arden had always been accompanied by some attractive young lady. Sometimes, Chip was told, they had been blondes. Other times brunettes, redheads, or black haired beauties.

But their names were a blank to those who had answered Dorlan’s questions. The mention of “Vicki” rang no bells, paid no tickets.

Chip kept at it doggedly. From Tom and Jerry’s Carousel, just off 44th Street, he visited five more places in quick order and without results.

It was after midnight then. The theaters had emptied an hour before, and the tempo of the partying world Dorlan looked in on was at its full rhythmic beat, its highest pitch.

He consulted his list. Steve had put a big Xafter the name “Esplanade.” From where Dorlan stood on 46th Street, he could see that title in flashing, blue-neon tubing against the night murk of the side street. It went on and off, winking like a weary eye at a jaundiced public.

Chip pulled himself together and headed for the Esplanade. He was tired. The beer that he had consumed at numerous places wasn’t doing him any good, and his trouser waistband seemed to get tighter and tighter. Still, each new address brought fresh hope. A blonde named Vicki. If it would help getting a line on her, he vowed, he’d stay on the job until the sun came up over Long Island City and another day dawned.

The doorman at the Esplanade gave Chip a toothy welcome. Chip Dorlan smiled back, though with not such a dental display. He walked into a rococo foyer to the dulcet strains of expensive band music. Most of it was blotted out by the cacophonous rumble of voices. To Chip they sounded like Niagara Falls at its thunderous best.

He drew a bead on the hat-check counter and steered a course toward it. Dorlan had an idea that the ornamental young lady who handled the skimmers and reefers of the convivial customers would know more about Arden’s activities than anyone else. So, when he reached the counter, he waited until a girl with brown-gold hair and a makeup that was so perfect it looked like a mask, finished handing a derby to a fat man and fluttered her mascaraed lashes in Chip’s direction.

She picked up a brass disk. Chip shook his head. “I’m not staying. Just looking for information. Willing to buy some – if it’s what I’m after.”

SEA-BLUE eyes contemplated him without particular interest. Blood-red nails, so perfect they didn’t look real, tapped gently on the counter. Finally the girl spoke.

“What kind of information?”

“About Arthur Arden.”

From the way she drew into herself Chip was aware that she had read about Arden’s murder. From her quick stare at him he knew she had him pegged as a cop.

“Headquarters?” Her voice was as smooth as her golden cheeks.

“Not directly. Private investigation.” Chip fingered a bill out of his wallet. The Phantom always, gave him unlimited expense money. Long ago, Dorlan had learned that the bigger the bill, the quicker the results.

The blue eyes widened a trifle when she saw the denomination printed on the green paper. She darted a glance around as if to make sure no one was watching.

“What do you want to know?”

“Arden used to come here?”

“All the time.”

“With dames.” Chip made it a statement rather than a question. She nodded.

“I’m trying to tab a blonde he was friendly with. A girl named ‘Vicki.’ ”

The hat checker laughed. “What do you mean – blonde? He had a different one every time he dropped in.”

She broke off. Dorlan waited for the same, “Sorry, I don’t know her,” which he had got all along the line. But she didn’t say that. Instead, the high lustered nails stopped their tapping, and the long lashes lowered over eyes which suddenly became thoughtful.