Robert Wallace - The Black Ball Of Death

They crossed the factory floor, reached a circular steel stairway that led to a catwalk high above the factory floor. By means of this catwalk, an enormous crane could be reached. A crane with which the big crucibles of molten metal were hoisted out of the furnaces and moved to the rows of molds.

The control house of the crane was suspended from tracks, and moved up and down the length of the factory. A very thick chain dangled from beneath the car and was looped over to the catwalk where it was twisted around a large steel post.

They reached the catwalk, moved along it; and the Phantom was very alert. He suspected that Vogel had a trick up his sleeve, but he wanted the crook to pull it. Once Vogel made his attempt to get away, or kill the Phantom, he’d expose himself and could no longer claim to be only a watchman. The Phantom had an idea that Vogel, properly softened, might talk.

Vogel, ten steps ahead, moved faster. He was at the point where the heavy lift chain was tied up. There he stopped and pointed back into the darkness at one of the corners of the factory floor below.

“The special furnace is over there,” he explained. “You can see the glow from it. They never let the fire go out.”

The Phantom half turned away from the man. He heard the faint clank of metal, wheeled back, and then threw himself forward and flat on the catwalk.

Vogel had detached the lift chain and sent it swinging in the Phantom’s direction. It would have crushed him against the side rail of the catwalk, or, perhaps, thrown him over the side. The chain was dragging along the catwalk but lightly, moving faster as it gained momentum.

Only the tail end of it skidded across the top of the Phantom’s head, but it made him see stars. The chain hit the side rail, smashed on through it effortlessly, and then went swinging out into space.

The Phantom was raising himself when Vogel leaped to the attack. The man knew how to fight. The Phantom seemed completely helpless sprawled on the catwalk. Vogel drew up short and lashed out a savage kick.

It collided with the side of the Phantom’s head, and his already outraged brain went fuzzy again. Vogel chortled and pulled back his foot for another kick. This one was meant to settle the one-sided affray quickly. But Vogel felt his ankle suddenly seized and twisted. He emitted a yowl of pain and crashed to the catwalk.

The Phantom crawled up on top of the man in time to use the side of his right hand in a blow that half paralyzed Vogel’s right arm. Vogel’s left hand darted out, fingers spread wide and aimed at the Phantom’s eyes.

Missing them, when the Phantom threw his head back, Vogel’s thick, powerful fingers closed around the Phantom’s throat. The Phantom had one hand in constant use holding down Vogel’s right hand. With the other he beat short, chopping punches to the region of the man’s heart. Vogel’s fat fingers shut off his wind completely. He couldn’t take too much of this without blacking out, and if he did for as little as ten seconds, he’d be a dead man.

Vogel seemed to sense that the Phantom was holding the advantage and pressed the attack harder, trying to use his knees now. The Phantom began aiming those left hand punches at Vogel’s jaw, but it wasn’t a glass jaw. The man could absorb plenty of punishment, and all the while the Phantom’s lungs clamored for air.

Somewhere behind the struggling men was a terrific crashing sound. The Phantom knew that the very heavy lift chain had swung back to hit the catwalk rail again. Then Vogel suddenly let go of the Phantom’s throat, moved his hand up across the Phantom’s face, and brought down a fist against the back of the detective’s neck.

It was a rabbit punch and ordinarily would have finished the fight, but Vogel was weakening under the steady punishment of the Phantom’s blows. He lacked the proper amount of strength to make a maneuver like that fully effective. But it brought the Phantom down atop his opponent, and Vogel was quick to take advantage of this. He managed to raise his knees and with a mighty effort dislodged the Phantom.

Vogel scrambled to his feet. He backed up, grinning wolfishly and wiping blood from the corner of his mouth with a grimy set of knuckles. He poised, ready to charge in and use his feet again. The Phantom struggled into a sitting position and started to bring up his gun.

Vogel tensed for the attack, all his attention on the Phantom. He didn’t hear the heavy lift chain swinging back – not until it struck the rail beside him. He screamed, whirled about to avoid being struck, and put all his weight against the catwalk rail. The chain had already weakened it in two places; now it ripped through a third, no more than a yard from where Vogel was huddled in terror.

Vogel felt the barrier give way. He saw the Phantom diving at him with both hands extended, but it was too late. Vogel’s scream grew shriller and shriller until the impact of his fall cut it off.

The Phantom reeled a few steps clutching at a sturdy section of the rail. He was getting his strength and wind back quickly. By sheer accident, his plan had failed, and a man who might have told him much of the truth was dead. He’d risked his own life to expose Vogel as a killer – and very nearly lost it when Vogel proved to be a surprisingly good fighter.

Somewhere in this vast building a telephone was ringing. It seemed miles away but it was insistent. The Phantom moved quickly down the steel staircase.

HURRYING into the office, the Phantom found the phone still clamoring. He picked it up, said, “Hello!” and his voice was the exact duplicate of Vogel’s. One of the Phantom Detective’s assets in fighting crime was his ability to duplicate voices. He’d made a study of it; and when he spoke now, Vogel’s closest friends wouldn’t have recognized the slight discrepancy.

“Why did it take you so long to answer the phone?” the man at the other end of the wire asked. He sounded like Barker with the twisted ear. “What’s wrong?”

“Everything is okay,” the Phantom replied. “You don’t know how okay. I had a visitor.”

“You didn’t let him go?” Len Barker shouted. “What did he look like?”

“Now hold everything,” the Phantom said with a chuckle that matched Vogel’s. “I took him to the catwalk above the furnaces; and, you know, that guy jumped off and got himself smeared all over the cement floor.”

“Good! Whoever he was, the man must have been dangerous. That was good work, Vogel.”

“Good? Listen, it was much better than you think. Ask me who the guy was, the guy I knocked off. Go on – ask me!”

“Cut the comedy,” Len snorted. “Tell me who he was.”

“The Phantom Detective!”

Len gave a hissing intake of breath. “Are you sure? Listen, Vogel, if you knocked off the Phantom you’ll get the biggest bonus of your life.”

“I found the badge on him. The Phantom’s badge. And I’m not interested in any bonus, Len. I’m coming in on the ground floor of this racket. I’m taking my share.”

“Go easy, Vogel,” Len said. “We don’t share; and – well, you know I’m not the only one in this business. I can’t invite you in, even if you bumped the Phantom off. But I can put in a good word for you.”

The Phantom took a long shot, seizing the opening Len had just given him.

“I know Bernie is in,” he said, “and somebody else besides. The real big shot. I want to meet him, Len. The big boy himself. Because I found something else on the Phantom. He was getting along in case. He knew plenty, and he wrote most of it down.”

Len’s end of the wire was silent for a moment or two. Then the man with the twisted ear blurted, “I’ve got to take a chance. Be in the lobby of the Monarch Hotel in an hour. Look for either Bernie or me. And Vogel – if you’re kidding about finding some papers on the Phantom’s body, Bernie won’t like it. I won’t like it either, even if you did knock off the one man we were afraid of.”