Robert Wallace - The Black Ball Of Death

Even though he worked swiftly it took time. He was just about finished when he heard a key click in the lock of the door of the reception office. He thrust the pencil and notebook into his pocket. He leaped to the wall switch, intending to turn out the lights, and then hesitated, his finger on the button. The click of the light switch might be heard by whoever was entering.

He heard the door of the reception office open and close, and waited.

“Anyone here?” a masculine voice called. “Who is it?”

The Phantom did not answer. He stood motionless at the side of the open door where he could not be easily seen by any one glancing into the private secretary’s office. He heard footsteps. Someone was coming toward the office. The Phantom waited, gun in hand.

“I know there’s somebody around here,” the approaching man said. “If there wasn’t, those lights wouldn’t be on in there.”

The Phantom frowned as he recognized the voice. It was Bernie Pennell who spoke. Evidently he had spent some time since he returned to town establishing alibis for himself and Len Barker to cover them for the murder of Dr. Winterly and also the killing of the Phantom. Provided of course, that Pennell had not learned in some way that the man with the twisted ear had failed and the Phantom was still alive. But what was Pennell doing here?

Pennell stepped into the office, dressed just as he had been the last time the Phantom had seen him, the snappy gray hat on his head.

“You’re right, Pennell,” the Phantom said, thrusting the barrel of his gun against the swarthy man’s back. “There is somebody here.”

“The Phantom!” Pennell gasped, as he looked back over his shoulder and saw the face of the man behind him. “But I thought you were dead – that Len had killed you and left you at Winterly’s!”

“That was what you told him to do before you left,” said the Phantom. “But Len is in jail, and I’m still very much alive.” His voice hardened. “Turn around!”

Pennell turned, slowly and deliberately. Now that he had recovered from the first shock of finding the man he thought dead alive, there was no fear in his attitude. The Phantom realized that Bernie Pennell was far more dangerous than Len Barker had been. This suave, dark man was no cringing coward when the odds were against him.

“What are you doing here?” the Phantom demanded.

“I might ask you the same question,” Pennell said, a mocking note in his voice. And I doubt either of us will get a very convincing answer.”

The Phantom was sure that Pennell had a gun and was just waiting to find a chance to use it, even though the weapon was not visible. In the Phantom’s estimation, to demand that Pennell hand over his gun now would be a bad move. It would give the man the impression that the Phantom considered him dangerous, even when covered by the detective’s gun.

“It is strange that you should have a key to Sunderland’s office,” the Phantom said. “What about that, Pennell?”

“You evidently got in here without much trouble,” said Pennell. “So you know there are such things as skeleton keys. Suppose I used one of those myself?”

The Phantom said nothing, but mentally he had to admit that Pennell was smart. Unless he searched him there was no way of the Phantom proving the man had not entered the office with a skeleton key of some sort.

“Len Barker broke down and did a lot of talking,” the Phantom said. “He insisted that you were the one who murdered Doctor Winterly. You’re in a bad spot, Pennell.”

“You’re right, Phantom.” For the first time Pennell seemed worried. “Of course Barker is lying. He killed the old doctor, but I’d have a hard time proving that.” Pennell looked anxiously at the Phantom. “Maybe you could find a way of giving me a break if we talked this thing over.”

“That might be possible,” the Phantom said thoughtfully. “At least I can consider it.”

He felt that if he could actually get Pennell to talk – to reveal the name of the man that the Phantom was sure was the brains of the whole colossal confidence game it would save a lot of time and effort, and bring the case to a close in a hurry.

“Good,” said Pennell.“Let’s go in Sunderland’s private office and talk this over in comfort.”

Without even waiting for the Phantom to agree, Bernie Pennell turned and headed for Sunderland’s private office. The Phantom followed, the gun still in his hand. Pennell stepped in through the open doorway and switched on the lights. He walked over to the desk and seated himself behind it. Then he pushed back the gray hat on his dark hair and smiled at the Phantom.

“Sit down,” Pennell said, nodding toward a comfortable looking chair near the desk. “Since I judge you expect me to do a lot of talking it’s going to take some time.”

“That’s right,” said the Phantom as he dropped into the chair. “And we might as well start by your telling me the name of your boss.”

In his estimation Pennell had grown too sure of himself, and the Phantom didn’t like it. That Pennell was so willing to talk, to reveal all he knew, didn’t seem at all in keeping with the man’s character. There was something decidedly false about this whole setup.

The Phantom’s keen brain worked swiftly, seeking some hidden trap. He was sure Pennell had not the slightest intention of revealing the name of the man higher up, but there must be some reason for his pretending to be so willing to do so.

There was no doubt that Pennell was quite familiar with all of the Sunderland Model Agency. The way he had found the light switch of Sunderland’s private office in the dark without even bothering to look for it was proof enough of that. The talk of his having entered by using a skeleton key was just a stall, the Phantom was sure of that now.

“So you want me to tell the name of my boss,” said Pennell, his hands resting on the glass top of the ornate desk. “All right He is -”

Abruptly the lights in the office went out. An instant later the Phantom found himself momentarily blinded by a bright spotlight that cast its white glare straight into his eyes. He leaped to his feet, raising the gun and trying to see Pennell beyond the light; but he was too late. Something hard crashed down on his head with brutal force. The bright light vanished into darkness as he slumped back into the chair unconscious.

The Phantom was never quite certain as to just how much time elapsed before he finally regained his senses and opened his eyes. His first feeling was of cool air blowing against him, and being somewhere in limitless space. He seemed to be swaying back and forth, and at first he thought the feeling was caused by the dizziness from the blow that knocked him out.

His right arm was raised high above his head, and it felt like something at the other end of it was trying to pull it out of the socket. His right wrist hurt and seemed caught in a steel clamp.

Horror swept over him as he realized that he was dangling at the end of a rope tied around his right wrist. The other end of the rope was evidently fastened to something inside a window in Sunderland’s office, and the Phantom hung there in space fifteen stories above the ground.

He reached up, trying to grab the rope with his free hand and relieve the pressure on his right wrist. Twice he tried and failed, and then he succeeded in grabbing the rope, and holding on. That took some of the pressure off his right arm, though the rope still hurt where it had cut into the flesh of his right wrist.

The Phantom looked down. The ground seemed very far away. The windows on this side of the tall building faced out onto a court at the bottom of a setback. All around him they were dark, and there was little chance of his being seen.