Robert Wallace: The Black Ball Of Death

There were lights on in this house, too, but only at the front of it, away from the lake. The Phantom knocked on a screen door. He heard heavy steps approach, and the inside door opened a crack.

“This is a police matter,” the Phantom said. “I’ve got to reach Sheriff McCabe at once. I want to use your telephone.”

“Come in,” the man said, and opened the door wider.

The Phantom stepped into the room. He saw the look of horror cross the face of the man who stood before him. The Phantom started to turn and reach for his gun, but he was too late. They’d set the trap well, menaced the owner of the house, and forced him to let the Phantom in.

A gun barrel crashed down on the back of the Phantom’s skull. He staggered backward. The hand trying to pull his own gun free was sluggish. His brain reeled, things were getting misty. He clutched at the side of a table. Another hammer-like blow struck his head. He went down on one knee, still clawing at the table for support Then he pitched forward and lay still.

He was never totally unconscious. When he heard the owner of the house shout in horror a few seconds later, he knew they were attacking him too. Then someone kicked the Phantom in the ribs, and he heard a groan. It seemed to come from miles away. The kick was repeated and so was the groan. This time he realized it came from his own throat.

He was grasped by the collar and lifted into a sitting position. Someone slapped him hard across the mouth. It didn’t even hurt. He was past the stage of feeling pain. Those blows on the head had numbed him from head to foot.

He didn’t know who’d sprung this trap on him for his eyes refused to function. Then he was on his feet – standing up, at any rate, though there were men on either side of him holding him there. He was urged forward. His legs wouldn’t work, so he was simply dragged along. Cold night air helped some to revive him, but he didn’t show it. His eyes functioned properly again, but it was dark now, and he couldn’t see his captors. He was certain there were only two of them.

THE darkness faded, and then there was bright light He was inside some building. He slitted his eyes and knew it was Dr. Winterly’s place. Apparently, they intended to kill him here, and somehow let Luke take the blame for his death too.

“Let him fall,” someone said.

The Phantom slid to the floor, but collapsed so that his head twisted sideways and he had a momentary glimpse of his captors. One was Bernie Pennell, still wearing that jaunty pearl-gray hat. The other was Len Barker, with the twisted ear, and his left arm in a sling.

“Here is the setup,” Bernie said. “I’m going back to town and rig us an alibi. We don’t know how much the Phantom knew, or guessed and maybe told someone, so we can’t take chances. If we’re picked up, we want our alibis intact.”

“Okay,” Len said. “So long as I get to knock off this guy, I’m satisfied. He winged me, and nobody gets away with that. I can take the launch across the lake and swipe the Phantom’s car. The launch shipped a little water when we crashed her into that rowboat, but I think she’s shipshape.”

“Good,” Bernie said. “But we’re taking no chances. Remember what happened to Vogel. For one split second he must have forgotten to watch the Phantom, and – he got killed. The same thing will happen to you if you relax. But I figure if we lock him behind that cellar partition – in the old wood bin down there – he can’t get out unless he knocks down the door or the wall. But you’ll be outside and ready for him. Give me an hour and a half before you kill him, and then I’ll have fifty men who’ll swear both of us were in town, miles from here, at the time the medical examiner says the Phantom died.”

“That thick headed servant of the Doc’s takes the rap,” Len said. “That’s the way we figured it, Bernie.”

“Yes. Use Luke’s knife on the Phantom. Make it look as if there was a fight down in the cellar, and just leave Luke where he is. The stuff we put in that bottle will keep him under for another three or four hours. By the time he wakes up, somebody will have found the Doc and the Phantom. Luke won’t know what happened except he got drunk.”

“An hour and a half,” Len said. “Okay. That’s plenty of time, but help me bring the Phantom out of it before you go. When he gets it, I want him to see it coming.”

They lifted the inert Phantom and shoved him into a chair near a small table. Bernie threw a glass of water in his face, and Len adopted a method he liked even more.

He began slapping the Phantom until he groaned and opened his eyes.

It required several minutes before he was able really to get his bearings. Both men covered him with guns. Len walked over and picked up the knife from the floor beside Luke’s couch. He stuck his gun under his belt, held the knife by its tip and took an envelope out of his pocket. He walked over and dropped this on the table beside the Phantom.

“Okay,” Len said. “Read that, and you’ll know just what this is all about.”

The Phantom reached for the envelope. Len’s. knife made a hissing sound as it whizzed through the air. Its point hit the envelope squarely in the middle, about three or four inches from the Phantom’s fingertips. It quivered there while Len laughed loudly.

“That’s a sample of what I can do with a blade, Phantom. A little sample of the way you’re going to get it. Okay, Bernie, let’s put him in that wood bin down in the cellar. Then we check watches, and I’ll wait here for ninety minutes before I bury the knife in the Phantom’s chest and head back to town myself.”

DR. WINTERLY’S SECRET

NOT ENOUGH strength remained in the Phantom for him to resist when they seized and shoved him to the cellar steps. Bernie opened the door; and Len, with a laugh, pushed his helpless prisoner downstairs. The fall almost robbed the Phantom of his senses again.

He was pushed and propelled to a narrow door made of slats, set about two inches apart. It opened on creaky hinges, and a weakling could have pushed the door off its frame. This was one-third of the cellar, a bin created of these slats which reached to the ceiling. Wood had been piled up here, and the walls of the bin were only meant to keep the wood orderly. The floor was of dirt and felt cool against the Phantom’s cheek.

He knew he had plenty of time. Bernie departed soon after they closed the rickety door and shoved a stick of wood through the hasp which held it shut. Len tipped a shaded, strong electric light bulb so that it acted as a floodlight and penetrated into the deepest part of the bin. Len had a chair tilted against the wall. An upturned barrel acted as a table, and he laid a gun on it with the knife beside it, its point off the edge of the barrel so the weapon could be quickly seized and set into motion.

The Phantom crawled over until he reached the wall. There he pulled himself into a sitting position and took stock of his circumstances. They didn’t look too good.

His head was clearing though, and the assortment of aches and pains abating. He looked limp and helpless, but there was strength in his muscles by now, and he was thinking hard.

To get out of this virtual cage, he had to crash down the door. An easy task but not with Len seated just opposite with a gun and a knife, both ready to use on him. No matter how fast he acted, he couldn’t possibly be fast enough to prevent Len from moving in. The slatted walls and door of this bin would impede the Phantom just enough to permit Len to get set.

The Phantom reached up with one hand, secured a grip on one of the slats, and hauled himself into a standing position. The board under his hand cracked and then sagged from its moorings. The bin was ready to collapse.