Robert Wallace: The Black Ball Of Death

“I only knocked him out,” Len declared.

“Let’s go,” the Phantom said tartly.

THEY found the neighbor frantically phoning the sheriff, and the Phantom permitted him to finish the call. When Sheriff McCabe arrived the Phantom gave him the details and turned Len Barker over to him instead of taking the thug to New York as he had originally planned. Luke went back to Dr. Winterly’s place to stand guard until McCabe summoned more help.

The Phantom drove back to New York alone. On the way, he studied the events from all angles and carefully planned a trap. It was conditioned upon what he’d find in New York, but the Phantom almost guessed what Steve Huston would tell him.

Upon reaching the city the Phantom returned to his Park Avenue apartment to freshen his disguise and to obtain new clothes to take the place of those ruined by the lake water.

He met Steve by arranging an appointment through Frank Havens, for Huston, as usual, remained in close contact with the publisher. They met on a street corner, just two men who apparently did not know each other casually waiting for a bus.

Steve spoke in a low voice, with never a glance at the Phantom.

“Vicki was gone when I reached her apartment,” Steve said. “Traced her through the cab she used, and went to Club Elite where the taxi driver had taken her. She was still there, with Park Sunderland, the follow who owns that model agency. They were cooing like a couple of turtle doves.”

“Did Sunderland receive or make any phone calls while you had him under observation?”

“He didn’t get any, but he made several. Lots of people stopped at his table to chat.”

“I’ll take over from here,” the Phantom said. “Reach Chip Dorlan, and both of you begin canvassing hotels for a man named Douglas Hoag, a Texas oil man worth plenty. The moment you find him let Mr. Havens know. Then stand by to wind this up.”

“That I’m going to like,” said Steve in a grim voice.

The Phantom knew where the Club Elite was situated. As Richard Curtis Van Loan he’d been there several times. The doorman showed no sign of recognition, since the man who entered the club looked nothing like Van Loan, but when the Phantom stepped into the dining room, he saw Vicki Selden give a start of surprise as she saw him.

She bent toward her companion and whispered. Park Sunderland turned his handsome face toward the advancing Phantom, then arose and offered his hand. He insisted that the Phantom take an empty chair at the table.

“But I don’t understand,” Sunderland said when the two men were seated.

“Vicki says you are the Phantom, and the last time I saw you, I believed you to be a regular city detective.”

“And I,” the Phantom countered, “believed that you and Miss Selden didn’t know one another.”

“We didn’t,” Sunderland admitted. “Hugh Royal, an artist, brought us together. He did some oil magazine covers with Vicki as a model, and thought I might be able to use her also.” Sunderland smiled at the girl. “I’m certain I can. We have just been talking over the terms of a contract.

“Tell me what you know about Hugh Royal,” the Phantom urged.

A look of surprise passed over Sunderland’s face. “Great heavens,” he exclaimed. “You don’t think he’s mixed up in this dirty business? Hugh isn’t wealthy, and hasn’t been what you’d term successful until lately, but he’s honest. At least I’ve never heard of him being dishonest.”

“How well did Hugh Royal know Arthur Arden?” the Phantom addressed his question to Vicki.

“Why – I don’t think they ever met.” Vicki frowned thoughtfully and touched her blonde hair with one slender hand. “I’m almost sure of it.”

“Did you tell Mr. Sunderland all the details, as to how you are involved?” the Phantom asked.

“Yes.” Vicki nodded. “I thought it only fair. There might be a great deal of publicity about this, before it’s finished with. I didn’t want to sign a contract and discover later that Mr. Sunderland wouldn’t be able to use me after all.”

“She’s not directly involved,” Sunderland said quickly. “Not with the criminals. In fact, she seems to have been working against them to such an extent that they actually tried to kill her.” He smiled. “Publicity of that kind will create sympathy for Vicki and make her more valuable than ever.”

The Phantom rose. “Then I’ll leave you two. At the moment, I’m rather stopped in my tracks. A man I wanted badly got away from me, though the one who attacked you, Vicki, is now a prisoner. I’m going to have you face him first thing in the morning. Maybe that will break him – make him talk.”

Vicki shuddered. “I’ll do anything you say, Phantom. I’ll be glad to testify against that man. He really meant to murder me.”

“Good,” the Phantom told her. “Stick to that story, and he’ll know what amounts to a life sentence will face him. Tomorrow we may settle this whole thing. Good night – and thanks to both of you.”

CLOCKS nearby showed about twenty minutes had elapsed since the Phantom had left the Club Elite. Yet now he was standing in front of a locked door on the fifteenth floor of the Avedon Building on lower Park Avenue. The corridor was deserted, and there was no light gleaming through the glass paneling of the door in front of him, but the lettering on the door was clearly visible. It read, “The Park Sunderland Model Agency.”

Swiftly and silently the Phantom drew a small, flat bit of steel from his pocket. A few moments of quick, deft work and the entrance door of the agency swung open to his touch. Like a flitting shadow he stepped inside, closing and locking the door noiselessly behind him.

In the darkness of the small reception office the scent of feminine perfumes hung heavy in the air. The Phantom drew his pocket flash and switched it on. The round beam of bright light circled around slowly, seeming to linger on the delicately tinted mauve walls, on the color photographs of languorous young ladies that hung there.

For an instant, the light lingered on the deserted receptionist desk, and the orange glass of the desk reflected back the white glow. Then the Phantom switched off the flash. He had assured himself there was no one in this part of the office at least, and there was danger of the light being spotted by someone passing in the corridor.

He turned and looked toward the door. The light from the corridor gleamed faintly through the glass, and he watched for a moving shadow that might indicate someone was lurking out there. The impression that he had been trailed when he had left the night club and driven here to this building in his car was strong within him.

For a full minute he stood there watching the door, but there was no sign of anyone outside. Apparently the corridor was still deserted. Satisfied, the Phantom stepped to the door of Park Sunderland’s private office. It was closed; and when he opened it, he found the office dark as was the rest of the agency. Again he brought the flash into use. The private office was deserted – no sign of anyone there. From the neatness of the place it was evident that the cleaning woman had come and gone.

The Phantom breathed a sigh of relief. If she had blundered in to straighten up the place and found him there his presence would have been difficult to explain. She probably would have thought he was a burglar and screamed for help. That would mean explanations and delays. The Phantom did not want that, for he knew he had to work fast tonight.

In the adjoining office, which evidently belonged to Sunderland’s private secretary, the Phantom found what he was seeking. It was a filing system. He quickly picked the lock on this, decided he could risk turning on the lights in the inner office, and went quickly to work. With pencil and notebook he took down names – dozens of them, along with addresses and phone numbers.